


Absolution

by habaneroomilk



Category: Original Work
Genre: Abusive Parents, Camp Nanowrimo, Coming Out, Coming of Age, Developing Relationship, Flashbacks, Gen, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Internalized Homophobia, LGBTQ Character, LGBTQ Themes, M/M, Major Original Character(s), Mental Health Issues, Mental Instability, NaNoWriMo, NaNoWriMo 2020, Original Character(s), Original Fiction, Original Universe, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV First Person, Relationship Problems, Religious Conflict, Religious Guilt, Schizophrenia, Slow Burn, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-10
Updated: 2021-03-01
Packaged: 2021-03-16 03:26:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 24,246
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29325435
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/habaneroomilk/pseuds/habaneroomilk
Summary: So they found me in my bathtub, right? And next thing I know I’m laying in this stiff as shit bed and can’t move. I was strapped down, from my shoulders to my ankles. For days I laid there, being spoonfed by this heavyset nurse, with the excuse that I couldn’t move because I was a “danger to myself”. I’m surprised they had the decency to wash the blood off of me.
Relationships: Ozzy Damonis/Josephine Bannister, Ozzy and Josephine, Ozzy/Josephine
Kudos: 1





	1. journey

**Author's Note:**

> I changed the rating, as self-harm and injury is probably not for 13 year olds. Trigger warning is put here NOW: there is referenced AND written self-harm, attempted suicide, intrusive thoughts, delusions, drug use, child abuse, and internalized homophobia.

**ONE**

When I was sick, I hadn’t seen one animal; and the first one I saw was a deer sprawled across the side of the road. Its neck was cracked, legs twisted. I could see its black eyes staring at me as the bus passed its corpse. I wanted to snap its legs back into place. 

The doctors told me I had been in a fugue state. I was away from home for five months. In the hospital, it took me an extra week to realize how much time I really lost. I had experienced a fugue before, but damn was this one bad. You can’t tell what time it is, what year it is. You’re stuck in your head, and you don’t know how long. It happens, and then you wake up from it like a dream. I couldn’t remember why I was there, or what happened before. My psychiatrist, Dr. Pentra, they explained to me I experienced some sort of nervous breakdown. You know the way a toothpick snaps in half when you press downward too strong? That happened to my psyche. It was a big thing when it happened. I didn’t show up to a dinner with friends, so one of them came to my apartment with their spare key. They found me, laying in the tub with my arms fucked to next Friday. I should have died from that. I didn’t.

All of it came back to me as I sat on the steps outside my apartment complex. You see, they hadn’t taken my keys with them when they dragged me off to the hospital one night, and no one bothered to get them from my apartment. So my landlord, a very sensitive lady, of course she locks my door for me to make sure no one steals anything of mine. Very nice gesture, believe me I know, but now I was locked out of my own damn house. 

It was around midday on a Tuesday, and there wasn’t anyone around, so I figured I’d do the best thing for myself. I took my suitcase-- it didn’t have much in it besides worn out clothes and an old toothbrush-- and I stuffed it behind this massive shrub that sat against the wall of my apartment complex. Thinking about it now, I was always the one to take care of the shrubs on the outside, because the landlady always asked me to help her. I didn’t like saying no back then, still don’t, but I didn’t mind doing it for her. It made the outside look more presentable, and she always told me they looked so pretty whenever I trimmed them. I guess she never hired an actual gardener. Anyways, after I hid my suitcase and covered it with some old sticks, I went down to the community storage building. It has the kind of door you can unlock only if you know the code to it. I got my bike from my storage room. The light blue could barely be seen under all the dust, and the little globs of it kept attaching themselves to my hands whenever I attempted to wipe it down. I figured the wind would clean it off pretty well, except for the seat.

Despite my best efforts, my legs were still pretty weak from almost never walking when I was in the hospital. I was upset about it at first, but to prevent me from falling into some old habits the doctors clarified I wasn’t in the state to wander around their building. Far from it, in their opinion. It was a wobbly ride, but I got the hang of it after a minute or so. There I was, riding down the side of the road, and I could barely balance myself from all the cracks in the cement. The city never bothers to change a thing, considering this area is the least populated part of town. In my opinion, it’s all the hick aristocrats that consider us hillbillies, thinking we’re used to these kinds of conditions and even enjoy them. It’s complete  _ bull _ shit, but I guess it gives my neighborhood a “rustic charm.” 

During my ride I had this great idea on writing some story. It’d have gods and creatures that end up fighting the gods that abuse them. Real good stuff, but the ideas always leave me so soon after I think of them. Besides, my typewriter was home and I certainly wasn’t in the mood to lockpick my own door. You’d have to go to the library, rent a book on lockpicking, then they’d see I’m back in town and it’d cause a whole  _ scene _ . I didn’t want a scene, I wanted coffee. 

The church had coffee. It was open every day. I was used to running the service there, and usually some nice old couples would come in to have coffee and listen to me. It was always really cute, the way the old ladies would cuddle down into their pew with a cardigan, and their paper cups of milk and sugar with a dash of coffee inside it. Some of the older gentlemen never did it, unless they were really old, and let me tell you some of the people here are ancient. The ones with canes and walkers enjoy it, because they have nothing better to do all day except sit and think. Why be alone while you do it? I laughed at myself, thinking of all the times I held a service there, or worked the confessional because one of my fellow “Brothers” didn’t have time for it one day. There was nothing to do when you sat inside one of those things. All you could do was sit, and wait, and maybe chew on your nails. Then you had to have a bandaid on every finger, and it made people look. I didn’t want people to look at me just yet.

I went to my friends’ house, Abigail Samson. A nice girl, and I figure she’d make me coffee if I asked her. I knew her since I was in elementary school. We’d play in the woods together when we were little, skipping rocks in the creek and breaking sticks against the thick bodies of trees. She tried as long as she could to give me a semblance of normalcy in my life, and I owe it to her for being with me despite everything I’ve done. 

I kicked and stood my bike and shoved it onto her porch. Her house reminded me of my parent’s home, except it was one story. It was this strange, ugly cyan, with wooden siding and a white porch. Their front door was open, only an unlocked screen door protecting their home from everyone on the outside. Imagine if I was some robber, or rapist. All I’d have to do is walk into their house, and bam! Dead. Both of them. Steal their nice turntable too. 

A rude thing to do, but I kept my shoes on as I walked inside her house. Things are dirty and I don’t like dirty things if you can imagine, so I figured keeping shoes on would help me a bit from coming in contact with her house, which looked like a goblin’s hoard. I would have worn socks, but the hospital didn’t have any for me, so the shoes stayed on. Abigail’s eyes shot up from her magazine when she heard me come in, but that flash of fear in her eyes was replaced with this excited grin. 

“Josephine! Alive and among the living!” She flipped her hair--long, platinum, and straight as a pole-- back behind her shoulders. 

God, she was loud. You could hear her talking from outside if you listened hard enough. It was impossible to  _ not _ notice her. She rested her chin on her palm, fluttering her blue-painted eyelids and reaching a hand out towards me. I accepted and we shook hands for a bit, her death grip making her nails pierce my skin, and I wanted to vomit. I figured I’d ask to use the restroom to wash my hands after I asked her for coffee. 

“How are you? Are you well?” Her voice lowered and she smirked. “Did the doctors scramble your brain to shit?”

I took out a small bottle of sanitizer from my pocket, and popped open the cap. I lathered my hands in it, and viciously rubbed my palms together. Abigail’s brow furrowed as she watched my hands move. “Not any more than it already was.” 

“Thank the  _ Lord. _ ” She sat back, propping her legs up on the coffee table, her body concaving into her leather sofa. She took a nail filer and began to chip away at her fingernails, scrutinizing them every thirty four seconds on average before continuing to dwarf them. I didn’t move, more so out of unnecessariness, and my legs began to feel warmth from the blood draining down into them. Blood from my brain to my legs and feet, until they’d seep out through my soles and leave me dry. 

“So how you been,” Abigail asked me after what seemed like... thirteen years and two months, I’d say. 

“Good.” I tell her. “Good.”

She doesn’t look up from her nails, besides turning her head to glance at words on the magazine pages next to her. “That’s nice. You know, it’s been lonely here without you. Everybody had been asking for you.”

She was lying.

“Father Xavier has been taking care of your work. Asked him myself. You’re lucky he’s stupid as bricks or else he’d be firing your ass. He’s  _ convinced _ you went on a trip to volunteer and convert people at a regular hospital. Fed into that all that bullshit like it was cake.” 

I hummed to her, letting out a huff to attempt my piece at speaking. Her periwinkle lips kept moving. 

“Poor Carol keeps getting in trouble at school, but I keep telling the teachers there that it’s not my fault for my kid having a  _ back _ bone and not putting up with those snooty assholes. All because I’m not married.  _ Married _ ! Who gets married in  _ this _ economy? And if you heard, oh, poor old Miss Damonis. She had a fall about two months ago. Was in the hospital for a few days ‘cause she bumped her head in the tub. She’s alright now, but the poor thing has to use a cane to walk. No surprise her son Ozzy came back from Nevada to take care of her.”

Ozzy.  _ Ozzy _ . 

“Ozzy’s back?”

“. . . huh? Oh, yeah. He’s been back for a few weeks now.”

“You didn’t call me? Tell me anything?”

She huffed, narrowing her eyes at me. “How the fuck was I supposed to do that, Josie? Whip an ID out of my ass and force them to let me see you? You were basically in a goddamn  _ coma _ .” Her blue lips pursed, and I could feel my chest tighten as she stared at me. Her eyes looked like sunflowers. “I  _ thought _ you told me you were done thinking about him.”

I did say that. Last year, around Christmas time, when she caught me on the back porch sobbing like an ugly, mangy dog over the fact Ozzy still hadn’t returned my call from Thanksgiving. I kept reasoning he was busy, but by the time I saw Abigail with her boyfriend, it all came rushing back to me and I realized I would die cold and alone with no one to sleep next to in my grave. I told her I wanted to be fed to bunnies when I died, or be eaten alive if it would be more dramatic. She told me I had to stop cleaning out the rabbit hutch when I volunteered at the animal shelter.

“How’s Robin?” He was an ex-con that came into town two years ago. 

Abigail leaned forward, her forearms resting over her knees, hands clasped together with her filer caught between them. A fly in a trap. “...mmm. Prison. Fuckin’ decked me across the face one too many times, so I shot the bastard in the leg. Blood was everywhere! Why do you think I have rugs over my carpet?” Her laugh crawled up and forced its way into my ears, squirming and making their home into my canals. Swallowing did no good to get them into my sinuses. 

“Deputy Daddy.”

“What?”

“ _ Dep _ uty Daddy.”

“Oh, right. Yeah. That was probably a good thing to have in court. It was settled with no charges on my end. I’m not complaining. I have to stay for Carol.”

“Real nasty keeping the blood in the floor.”

“Don’t matter none. It’s almost out save for a big ol’ brown stain.” She’s disgusting.

“You should get the carpet replaced.”

“Like hell! Only if you’ll pay for it.”

She didn’t seem to understand that, like a heart able to be heard through thick wooden floorboards, the blood could be seen no matter how many rugs she tried to cover it with. It stayed there, fresh and red, and seeping through the cheap wallpaper with stripes covering her living room.

I could hear the clock in her hallway; ticking and clicking like a tongue in a mouth. Waggling its hands, wanting attention from everyone. Abigail’s breath was shallow and uneven; if she was even paler, she’d look as sick as me. I do admit, I looked like a corpse standing in her room, like I was buried alive and escaped within an inch of my life. 

“I think I . . .” What’s the word? What’s the damn word? “I, uh hold on.” I tugged at my hair, twisting it in my finger. “I’ll go.”

“Go?”

“Right. I was stopping by to catch up.”

“Oh. Alright.” She stood up, wiping her hands on her sweatpants. Underneath them were layers of intimate tattoos. I saw them once, when we went swimming in the river. I hadn’t swam in years. “Do you need anything? Coffee, water?”

“No.” I zipped my jacket back up. “It was good talking.”

“It’s cool, Josie. Listen, don’t start getting weird again, okay? If your brain starts getting--” she loops her finger in a motion next to her head, widening her eyes until they shone with whiteness-- “I’ll take you to the doctor, no questions asked.”

I exhaled. “Okay,” I muttered. She tried, I know she really tried. Damn did it piss me off though, the way she tried so hard and yet still made mistakes. Either she’s unaware, or does it on purpose to make me even more crazy. Crazier than I’ve already been told I am. She touched my arm all of a sudden.

“Oh, sorry,” she shot her hand back, looking at me with this same fear in her eyes she had when I walked in her house without a word. “I’ll see you.”

When I left her house, I hopped right on my now much cleaner bike, and began to make my way to the shopping district in town. By shopping district, I mean a couple gas stations, grocery stores, a butcher’s, and some backend department stores. All of it was either secondhand clothes-- which I did love shopping for-- or these locally made clothes that were triple the price. Very high end, I will say, but completely unnecessary to buy. I prefer a more simplistic approach. Makes me blend in more to people that I have no similarities between.

I locked my bike to a stand, and walked inside the only good supermarket they had. It was good, because it didn’t have an area where you could buy flowers. I knew I would be safe in there, as long as some weirdo didn’t drag flowers inside while he decided to go shopping. 

“Father, how are you?” 

“Well, thank you,” I stated. 

“How was your volunteer work?”

“Fine. Very good.”

“Afternoon, Father.”

“Good afternoon, Mrs. Willows.” Mrs. Willows gave me an old, wrinkly smile, her eyes disappearing between the folds of her skin. I gave her a small smile, although I struggled to give one genuinely, and I nodded at her, before turning towards the freezer. Inside, the perfect thing. A beautiful drink, a concoction of what must be Heaven on Earth; despite my faith I do enjoy those absolutely strange expressions. I took a small, glass bottle of chocolate milk outside of the refrigerator. Right there was the cash register, sitting at the main counter that was covered in old tape and torn, faded papers of store promotions.

“‘Ello, Father.” It’s Shane who said this to me. A junior in highschool, his hair fixed into a slicked back cut, and round glasses on his face. He was around ten when he confessed to me that he liked to take spiders, and separate each leg from its body and organize them, before lighting it on fire with a match. 

I put the money, two dollars and eighty six cents exactly, into his hands. He gave me a receipt after cashing it out, and gave me this lopsided smile, like a victim of some neurological disease. 

“Are you alright?”

The bell jingled as I went through the front door, and I tucked my bottle into the smallholder on the handlebars of my bike, so I wouldn’t make a mess of things. I could trip over even the tiniest crack on the cement, and once I do that, everything would go wrong. Wires would move, the future would change, and I’d be out of two dollars and eighty six cents. 

I dropped the bottle right then, on the ground, and used the glass from it to stamp my feet into. I picked the pieces up, and dug them into my hands, blood poured from my palms, my fortune lines distorting into my muscle and veins. And I tore them out, my fingernails covered in this gore that looked like ground beef. I heard screaming in my ear, this distant screaming that kept getting louder every second, and I felt my heartbeat in my ears, the neverending ringing returning with this conscious vengeance. 

“Josephine?” I heard this voice call for me from behind, where the entrance of the store was. Usually, the only people who call me by my first name is Abigail, or this group of local Boy Scouts that respect their group leader more than me, and believe me, their group leader would kill me at knifepoint if it was legal. Then again, in defense of gay panic, it would be very much legal. If he were to accuse me of such.

“I don’t want to buy anything, thank you.” 

They touched my shoulder, and I felt my entire body tense to stone. “Josephine, it’s Ozzy.”

My body swerved like some asshole truck driver turning to hit a stray cat he doesn’t like because some neighbor of his feeds them. I stared up at them, my eyes narrowing to crescents. It took me three minutes on the dot to recognize them under their grown out facial scruff, longer hair, and immensely powerful jawline. You could grate cheese on it. “Who?”

He laughed at me, like I was a sad clown at the freakshow. “God, it’s been years. You look so different.”

“Gee, thanks. I look like a zombie, don’t I?”

“No, you look pretty.”

Ozzy of all people didn’t have any right to say that to me, but I let him. Only because I was too tired to yell at him. I glanced at my untouched hands, my bottle of milk nestled into the smallholder on my bike.

“I heard you’ve been out of town.”

“Yes.” 

“How long?”

“Five months and nine days.”

“That’s very exact.”

“Listen, I’m busy--”

“Wait.” He held onto my bicep, giving it a gentle, firm squeeze. Suddenly, I felt all too aware of what was happening between us. I couldn’t hear the wind, the cars passing, the cashiers ringing people up, or the sound of plastic bags scraping against the concrete. I looked at him, at those monolid eyes. An apple green so vivid, I pinned him down and ripped out his eyeballs myself to taste them and see if they’re just as sweet. There were no screams, or pleas of mercy, only mumbled nonsense. 

“. . . and you understand that, right?”

My eyes widened. “No. I didn’t understand a thing.”

His brow downturned, he smiled solemnly at me. “Well, nice to see you haven’t changed.” He took a deep breath. “Look, you know where my old house is?”

As I nodded, he said, “why don’t you come to dinner tomorrow night? We can talk.  _ Just _ talk.”

“I don’t know,” I muttered.

“I want to see you again.”

“I’ll think about it. I have a  _ lot _ of important  _ things _ to do.” That was a complete half-assed lie. It was the best thing I could say. When he touched me, I felt like I would die. As if everything was so vivid and clear, and my brain couldn’t comprehend it; my heart so overwhelmed by this affection, it could stop at any moment.

“Okay. Think about it, Josie.” He patted my cheek a couple times, before reaching his arm upwards and looking at his watch. “I need to go in now. My mom expects me back.”

“Alright.” How was your mother? Was she alright after her fall? Did she even want to see me?

“Goodbye.” He walked into the store after that, leaving me behind. I felt like I did seventeen years ago, except even more sad, and I couldn’t put my finger on why.

“Okay.”

No one was in the park, and by the time I got there the sun was starting to disappear into the horizon, letting itself be consumed by the Earth to continue the natural cycle of life. I found a bench by the forest trail, one that led down to a riverbank stretching for miles. A rather nice place if you wanted to hide a body, although every kid loved playing hazing games in the woods. They’d find it for sure. 

I sat down, my throat miraculously dry. Clearing it did no good, there was still this hill, this mound constructed inside it, preventing me from breathing. Exercises did nothing for me. In. Out. Inhale. Exhale. It did no good, none at all. My throat grew more constricted when I noticed forget-me-nots, there, planted along the pathways of the park. Small clusters of spies. I watched them, ready to run, observing them until it was truly time for them to move. 

“Evening, Father Josephine.” I heard the voice of an old friend. Frankie. A Vietnam war veteran. He liked to walk his service dog every day at this park, once in the morning and once in the evening. When he confessed to me he was a murderer from the war, I expected such. When he confessed he was a homosexual, I was speechless to find someone in our town feeling such things, but it was always clear between us we were friends. I would never commit betrayal against an innocent person. Not a good man like Frankie. He grinned at me, tussling his walnut hair and winking.

“Been forever, hasn’t it?”

“Were flowers always grown here?” This was a dire question.

“Oh, uh, no. I don’t think so. I suppose they’re pretty, aren’t they?”

“No. They’re not.” I stood up, turning my head to face him. “Do you know who planted them? You don’t think there’s, um…” I put my hands behind my back, pinching one of the backs of my hand so hard, I felt like screaming. Howling, maybe, like a cougar. I took a long, careful breath, remembering what was normal. This was normal, and it was real. Our conversation was a normal one. “It’s fine.”

“Father. Could you do me a favor?”

“Sure.”

He chuckled, tracing his index finger over his opposite hand, where his last two fingers used to be, only stumps remaining. “If anyone comes to you talking about breaking a window, could you let me know?”

“Frankie, that’s the stupidest thing you’ve ever asked from me.”

“I’m not saying you tell me who it is, confidentiality and all that, but Phillip is worried. At least tell me if it’s someone to worry about.”

“What happened?”

“It’s nothing much. It’s probably some kids being dared by their friends. Thinking we’re letting the devil inside the town or something.” He raised his arms, waving them around with a faux terrified look on his face. “Ooo, spooky.”

“Awful.” Crossing my arms, I told him “fine. If anyone comes forward I’ll let you know. _Only_ _if_ it’s someone to be concerned about.” I wiped my forehead with my jacket sleeve.

He smiled at me, then frowned again. “You look sick, Father.”

I shook my head. “I’m alright.” 

“I can walk you home if you’d like?”

“Alright. That’s alright.” I rubbed my hands over my face, furrowing my brow as I stared at the grass. “It’s these damn flowers that are driving me crazy. I’ll be going now.” I didn’t let him continue our conversation. I turned and left, grabbing the bars of my bike and leaving him to his own devices. Soon, he would be returning home to his partner and his dogs, enjoying a dinner made by someone else, and spend the rest of his night watching tv and drinking beer, and dreaming of happy, simple things. Here I was cursed to be forever complex. Forever complicated. My night home, if I were to get into my home, would include wondering how to write something that could inspire me to live another day. One day at a time, a constant reminder of my instability, and my inaccomplishments. 

I fell onto the rocks of the riverbank, my hands scraped by the tough stone, and I dug my feet into the pebbles, watching the water travel downward towards the ocean. A good place to die, a good place to drown in and peacefully return to the Earth and all of Her previous children. To meet them all, cold and wet, and be warmed by Her embrace. Maybe in death, I would be cursed to wander the riverbanks, like the poor woman Llorona, who spends all eternity to search for children she will never find. Maybe I am meant to live forever; alive until the end of time, in which I will go insane to the point I forget everyone I love and care about. 

Removing my shoes, I dip my toes into the flowing river. The sun forces the sky into an orange and pink mosaic, details of white peeking through the clouds in rain; their forms changed. The treeline, deep and black, sways at the peak of the willows and birch, their leaves changing form between the lines of the wind. No outlines shown between the living creatures, no form given to the birds which fly in the distance from branch to branch. My arms begin to burn from my scraping nails, pinching myself to stay here in the presence of reality. My throat begins to constrict, tightening as I reach into my jacket pocket, emerging from it and resting in my hands: a lighter. 

Smoke. Finally smoke. I feel relief as the cigarette is removed from my lips, smoke bursting up my lungs and from my throat, forth into the humid evening air. I feel here, alive, and existent. The scratches against my arms start to fade. I snort my nose, wiping my jacket sleeve against my dampened cheeks, hollow and highset, and I watch God’s work begin to fade into darkness. However many hours I spend here tonight; if time could end forever and I am here for the rest of my natural life, I would be content. No matter how many times I admit I hate it, I see myself in my reflection from the water. The backlit portrait of myself, healthy face and thin lips; dark hazel eyes bagless and curls full.

Although many say life is short, mine is full of regrets of roads I was too scared to take; ones I could not see the end of, and therefore refused to go down. It is these roads that I now attempt to force my way through, yet the paths are now blocked by people of faith. My own self, scared to recognize my remorse for every pain I have caused both myself and others, those in my life who are innocent and I had given anger instead of love. This was not the home I was meant to go to, not the first time, and not this time. I could see my own face reflected by the darkening sky. The stars were beautiful, plentiful compared to the dark cloud that hid them away when I was trapped inside the hospital. Here, they showed themselves to me, welcoming me home. I accepted their warmth graciously as I could. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Back in time around two decades, we see Josephine as a young boy. We meet the others in our first encounter.

**TWO**

  
  


Carrie and Bo were known as the most selfless people in our community. The kindest couple one could meet. Their faith in something larger than themselves did not solve their hypocrisy, nor their ignorance. Their desire was to keep me pure from all that could corrupt me, and the possibility I could give in to any kind of modern day sin terrified them. They kept me properly restricted within their grasp, trapping me under their thumb until faith was all I knew. I was taken out of school when I was in the eighth grade, and put into homeschool with my mother as my teacher. It was within our living room that I learned everything about Catholicism and its history. The Bible was my only source of evidence of knowledge. Despite my age, Carrie enjoyed treating me as a child; therefore, any questions asked were met with avoidant statements. Her attempt at an eloquent way of speaking was no song I enjoyed. The inability to have solid answers only gave fuel to the fire of my frustration as a growing young man. 

When I lived with Carrie and Bo, they believed they deserved perfection and elegance. Error called for capital punishment, which was given to my hands and arms by a ruler, a cooking utensil, or a hammer-- which would be lightly stricken. If a metal side struck me and drew blood, they either took no notice of it, or thought it was right that I should sting with pain when I could not recall a certain verse to a book. 

I sat on the steps of our front porch, watching neighboring trees hold each other and intermingle their branches. I was seventeen then. The blistering sun drenched my arms and caused my sweater to stick to my forearms with the disgusting sensation of jello. I had completed my assignments for the day, so was left to my own devices so long as it was something approved of by the two of them, and Carrie was busying herself in the kitchen. The sound of her cutting knife working through the tomatoes, clashing against the cutting board, echoed from the kitchen and into the open entryway of our front of house. Our front door stood open, our screen preventing the entry of unwanted pests. I remember tapping rhythms with my palms against my thighs. 

The screen door creaked open, slamming with a resounding thud. Carrie’s flipflops flopped against the wooden boards. She looked down upon me, wiping her reddened hands against her apron. Her yellowed teeth bore through her barbie pink lips, warped in a sneer. 

“Stop that  _ tap _ ping, I can barely hear myself  _ think _ .” She smacked my hands, forcing me to retreat them to my sides, which I placed my palms upon the wooden stair, the sleeves of my sweater keeping them clean. “I’ve been callin’ for you for ages.”

“That’s okay,” I told her, my face level with the front door of our across neighbor’s home.

I could feel her eyes staring at me, watching me, observing my unmoving body. How badly did she want to frighten me? After a few minutes of silence, she sharply exhaled. “How did you sleep?”

“It was okay.”

“Did you have any breakfast?” She snapped inches from my face, my head reeling back. “Did you have any breakfast?”

“I’m not hungry.” I glanced up at her, holding my breath. Her eyes narrowed at me, hunched down and leaning over me like coyotes watching a baby. Her mouth drooled until it leaked down to the floor, eyes filled with crazed hunger. With one blink, she stood up, roughly patting the back of my head with her filthy, juice-covered hands.

“Mama.” My voice shook.

“Yeh?”

“Where’s Dad?”

“Went out to the store.”

“Mmkay.” I stood up, giving a sigh, and didn’t look at her once as I hopped to the cracked sidewalk. “I’m going out.”

She turned on her heels, swaying her hips as she fidgeted with her apron between her hands. “You better not be wearing a  _ co _ at in this weather.”

I unchained my bike, dragging it along the pavement, before allowing it to stand upright. I sat firmly onto the chair. “I’m not. I’m just going to ride my bike.”

“Alright. Wait--” her head swerved-- “we need to help the old ladies down the street.”

“Do we?”

“If you see them, invite them to come to  _ chu _ rch with us one day.”

I cocked my brow, tilting my head from incomprehension. “That sounds rude.”

Carrie gritted her teeth. “ _Bye_ _now_ , Josie.” It was a sign for me to leave, if I were to be allowed to leave at all that day. I kicked up the stand, and sped away, the soles of my feet beating against the pedals of my cycle. 

I knew my plans for the day. I knew what I would be doing. I began to make my way to Abigail’s house. My only friend, the one person I could go to when I had nowhere else to turn. My shelter in the storm of a dysfunctional family. I slept on her bedroom floor on the nights I was terrified to come home. I could visit her, yet if Carrie were to find out, what could I tell her? Even with Abigail being a terrible influence on those surrounding her, Carrie’s worst fear was my loss of innocence against a woman. I could go to the bookstore. They were open until midnight, and as long as I bought anything worth a dollar from them and a drink, I was allowed to stay until I was forced to leave by the manager. Then I would go home, shamefully, and sneak through my window, up the lattice against the wall of my house. 

Have you ever tried pedalling? Have you ever attempted to ride a bike, or drive your car, farther and farther away from your home until you ran out of the energy to move again? I did so that day. I did just that, until my lungs strained, my calves aching. I could feel the coils of my hair sticking to my cheeks and forehead. Sweat poured down my back, drenching my body in a disgusting sheet. This ugly shell I daily wore. 

To return to my home in time for dinner was to return to a living hell I couldn’t mentally stand to be in. As if I was trapped within cement up to my waist, while my legs itched and ached from pain and ticklishness, yet I had no way to move and scratch them. It was being lost in thought when the front wheel of my bicycle hit square against a pothole on the trail, and I was abruptly pulled out of my mind as I was launched from the seat of my bike. The next moment I was aware of myself, I was looking up at the sky. My entire left side burned, screaming at me with agony as I laid there motionless. That was the very first time he saw me. The first impression I made far from friendly. A younger boy looked down at me, casting a shadow over my face, watching me with a downturned brow. 

“Hey there,” he uttered, offering his hand out to me. He was less defined back then, yet still thick with developed muscle. He let his hand fall limply to his side when he realized I wouldn’t take it, and only continued staring at him. His eyes widened, mouth contorting. “Do you need any help,” he enunciated in a babyish tone, one of those voices people in movies make when talking to a foreigner; the stereotypical, nationalistic type of humour. 

“What?”

“Oof. I hope you didn’t get concussed. Hold on.”

“Wait.” He had already left me at the side of the road by the time I was able to speak. I sat up, my left arm making my body jolt from the pain. “Goddammmmmmit.” 

I smacked my hand against my knee, sitting there quietly and rocking back and forth under the overgrown tree by the road. Crawling over to my bike, I assessed the damage; the tire was blown out. My only mode of transportation was stolen from me by an angry god. I could feel my throat grow tighter. “God- _ fuck _ ing-dammit.” I wiped my eyes with my sleeves, before reaching down and feeling into my short’s pockets. “Nooo…” My hands shot up to my head, realizing I had forgotten my sanitizer in my urgency to escape my home. The balls of my hands pounded against my head with such malice towards myself.

“Hey.” I felt a hand wrap around my wrist, pulling my right hand away from my forehead, revealing my face. The boy knelt down next to me, having returned to my side with a small first aid kit. “Don’t hit yourself, you might make it worse.”

“That’s fine,” I growled. He bit his lip, looking at the ground, and fiddled with the bandaid wrapper in his hands. I let my body untense, and stared at him, my gaze softening. “...Who are you?”

His eyes reignited into their seafoam green. He smiled at me, his thin lips flattening to reveal these perfectly aligned, articulated teeth. “My name’s Ozzy.”

“Oh.”

He pointed to my left arm. “Can I…?” I lifted it, allowing him to take my hand into his, which he firmly squeezed. He let out an “eee” upon peeling back my sleeve, revealing a deep scrape above old healing wounds. He looked at me, a lopsided smile spreading across his face, his puppy dog eyes leaking with worry. “Does it hurt?”

I nodded. He doused it in cold water from a bottle, before spraying it with disinfectant. He put several large, rectangular bandaids on it to cover it, until it looked suitable enough. My waist and left leg were sure to be covered in bruises. 

I frowned at him as he reached for my face. 

“Hey, don’t worry, I’m a professional,” he laughed to himself, “been practicing on stuffed animals since I was a kid.”

“What kind of joke is that,” I grumbled to him, my frown dissipating into half-open eyes and slightly parted lips.

“Don’t worry about it.” He slipped a bandaid on my cheek, sticking it firmly against my untouched skin. “You good?” He smacked my shoulder.

“What the f-f-fuck!” I grimaced in stinging pain.

“I’m sorry…!” He exclaimed, his baritone voice ringing in my ears as I shoved him on his back and onto the ground. He watched me stand, his chest caving in from a held breath, which he released in relief that I wasn’t severely injured. I couldn’t hide a small smile as I helped him up, both of my hands grasping his wrist, not letting it go as we stood in front of each other.

“I, uh, I’m Josephine. That’s my... name.”

“Really? Suitable for a feminine fellow.”

I guffawed as I smacked his firm chest. “I’m-- I’m sorry, you know, I shouldn’t-- I shouldn’t be-- be-- be rude when you-- when you helped me.”

“It’s alright.”

I scuffed my shoes along the rocks. “I… have not uh, seen you around before.”

He turned his head thrice; left, right, then left again, before taking his first steps into the empty street, under the canopy of trees. His bare feet made quiet smacks against the burning pavement. He tucked his hands deep into his khaki short’s pockets. I limped along, my thigh aching as I did my best to follow him. Alongside me I dragged my bike with me, its tires rolling along the ground and begging for rest. “We moved here last month,” he explained, “my mom wanted a change of scenery. We lived in Maine the last few years.” 

“What about your dad?”

He squinted, flattening his lips out as he glanced at me. “Don’t have one!” His tone was so casual.

I had to strike a nerve. “Is he dead or something?”

“Hah! No, I  _ never _ had one. She raised me alone.” He climbed the steps of his front porch. His home was made up of two stories. His house painted a pale, neutral orange; the shutters of the windows a pure white. All of the windows were open, letting the humid summer air inside as a welcome guest. 

Their car, a yellow Volkswagen beetle, sat in their driveway, the garage door left open with its wire dangling from the edge. Boxes; empty, opened, and unopened, sat on the porch and inside their garage. Remnants of their slow progress into the transition of city life into a quiet, isolated, suburban neighborhood.

I curled my hair with my stray finger. “A bit strange, isn’t it?”

“No, I don’t think so. A lot of people have only a mother or father. Or two mothers or fathers.”

I sat down upon the top step of his stoop, looking up at him with wide eyes. My mouth left a bit agape. I unconsciously tugged at his tank top, like a child eagerly wishing for the attention of their parent. He sat down next to me as I whispered “what do you mean,” in amazement. 

Ozzy cocked his head, looking to the sky, pondering. “You know,” he puckered his lips, “people liking other people. I have two aunts together. They don’t have any kids.”

“That can’t…” I kicked the wooden stairs with the heel of my feet. “I should go. My mama doesn’t like when I-- when I talk to people like you.”

His brow furrowed. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I mean… uh, I don’t know. You just remind of what-- of what str _ ange _ people are like--”

“I don’t mean that in a bad way,” I loudly claimed. I watched his profile twist in emotion as he processed my response. The way the bridge of his hawk nose crumpled up, wrinkling. His dimples showed as he smiled in confusion, opening his mouth only to close it again and sigh through his small nostrils. His almond eyes, watching the unmoving trees, before his irises showed to the corner of his eyes. 

“Well, I have no idea what you mean,” he leaned in close, his voice lowering, “to be honest, I can hardly understand you past that accent.”

“I--” I grinned, cheeks flushing. I waved my hands about, fingers swimming through the air as I couldn’t help but laugh. “Okay. I get it.” 

“Yeah?”

“Yeh! Okay: outcasts and all that. Stereotyping!”

We both laughed at ourselves for a few minutes. It was funny then. There was something about Ozzy back then that drove me crazy. I felt these feelings I never had for another person. This desire to stay by their side for as long as I could, instead of trying to squeeze myself away into a corner of hiding, to escape. Watching him laugh made my heart jump into my throat, crawling its way into my mouth, my tongue trying its best to swallow it down into silence. I couldn’t let him notice it was there. 

“Josephine?”

Our eyes met. “Hm?” I felt myself grow hot as he stared at me directly. No matter where I looked, his eyes remained locked, attempting to look into mine.

“Do you go to the highschool?”

I curled up, looking down to my rolled up sweater sleeves. My gaze remained to the floor as I mindlessly ran my nails along my forearm. I sat there, giving a small grunt as I itched at my arm. I could feel him watching me, these curious eyes observing my own behavior. He didn’t mutter to himself. He didn’t say anything out of place at all. “No.”

“Oh, okay--” 

“I’m homeschooled.”

Ozzy wrapped his hand around the wrist of my scratching hand. I screamed at him, I swear I did, but he plain ignored anything I had to say. He only kept hold of it, and moved it back to my side, leaving my bare forearm covered in dry skin and red marks. I stared down at it, feeling my eyes well up with the realization of my own mistakes. I wasn’t worth enough to be talking to him. I couldn’t act average, not even to hold a conversation with someone I, back then, had found so angelic. He removed his hand after I let it fall to my side, and I let it sit there on the step, only staring at my arm. Ozzy scratched at the back of his neck. 

“You know how to kick a soccer ball? I mean I have one. I used to play it back in sixth grade. I like kicking it around.” 

“I’ve never played anything like it.” I followed him up as he stood, his figure towering over me by a good head. He gave an innocent smile down at me. 

“I’ll go get it from the garage.”

After only five minutes, he returned from the side of his house with a tattered, worn soccer ball in his hands. 

“Ready to lose?” He inquired with a grin, walking towards where I stood in his front lawn. 

“Genuinely?”

“Sure.”

Chuckling, I told him “I’ll kill you.”

“ _ Hah!” _

I remember kicking the ball back and forth, ducking when it launched too high and jumping to catch it when it was angled just out of reach. Ozzy’s legs were strong, thick, and laced with hundreds of hours of practice with the sport. 

“You’re so bad at this, oh my God,” he’d tell me between outbursts of laughter, his throat straining.

I would wheeze and respond with more… degrading comments about myself. He could have easily made me look like a fool, or had me embarrass myself, but that wasn’t the kind of person Ozzy was. It still isn’t. When I saw him, it was as if it was impossible for him to stop smiling. It may have gotten smaller, or grown into a grin, but never have I met a person happier than someone like him. 

“Ozzy,” I panted.

“Yeah?”

I collapsed onto the ground, falling on my rear, before laying onto my back and letting my hair envelop my face. My eyes watched clouds morph into many varying shapes, my ears listening to the sound of his hands catching and then tossing the ball. I closed my eyes, feeling a small part of darkness wave over my eyelids as Ozzy walked over to me and stood, blocking the sun from my head. 

He set the ball down by the base of the tree that grew in his front yard. Silently, he twisted himself into the tire swing, his giraffe-like limbs stretching to the sky, his legs bent to allow his feet to scrape against the dirt ground. He absentmindedly swung there, looking down at me curiously. I flinched and opened my eyes as his toes gently tapped my shoulder. 

“Ozzy,” I mumbled.

“Hm?”

“I--” I shut my eyes again, giving a sharp exhale through my nose-- “I probably need to get home.”

I kick the idiot that I was when I was younger. 

“Do you?” Ozzy asked.

“Yeah.” I sat up, looking down at my chest, my hands wringing together from habit. “I, uh, my mama is strict. She likes me home early.”

We stared at each other. “They’re… a real religious type,” I added. A lightbulb came on in his head, him arching his brow.

“Why does that make sense now,” he jested. I pushed his calf, smiling to myself. My cheeks flushing as I heard his deep laughter come out in small waves all over again. We weren’t saying anything funny, we weren’t joking, but we couldn’t stop laughing together. It was this connection; I always felt one with him, and it was luck herself that gave me this chance to meet him, although punished by her for taking advantage of what we had between each other.

“Will I see you around again,” Ozzy questioned, leaning against the tree as I grabbed the handles of my bike, letting it stand firmly beside me. I pursed my lips.

“Maybe,” I repeated, “maybe.”

“Okay.” He offered out his hand.

“Okay.” I took his hand, letting it be squeezed by his large fingers. His grip lingered for a second longer when I attempted to pull my hand away, until he let go and let his hand fall. I did not look back at him as I turned, walking with my bicycle down his street and on my journey home. There, I would face my reality once again, and be forced to come to terms with myself and be alone with my own thoughts.

~~~

When I made it home, all of the lights were off, save for the lowlight of the television in our den moving from light to dim past our closed curtains. I slipped in through the front door, doing my best to avoid the attention of my more than displeased parents. Bo sat there, already half-drunk and watching reruns of an older show, airing when he was my age. Carrie sat on the couch, tapping her foot anxiously, her silhouette sitting there with crossed arms and a puffed chest. I think God had my side in their favor that day, allowing me to sprint up the stairs without one coming out of place and giving a loud creak. Neither of them noticed me home. With skill, I could easily fake sleep and escape the wrath of either of them through fantastical and subconscious dreaming.

I just finished locking my bedroom door behind me, before I heard light taps come against one of my large windows. I groaned to myself and put on one of my dark jackets. Rubbing my eyes, I grabbed the flashlight off of my nightstand and stuffed it into my pocket. I grimaced as I saw Abigail, standing there in my mom’s garden, a flashlight in one hand, and a small pebble in the other. Her anime backpack was strapped tightly to her back, zipped shut. I forced open my bedroom window. 

“Abigail, I’m--  _ augh! _ ” I flew back, holding my nose in pain, the bridge of it seering with pain. A pebble banged against my wooden bedroom floor, bouncing before landing on my soft wool rug. I peeked over my windowsill, holding my nose, seeing Abigail standing there and cringing.

_ Sorry! _ __ She mouthed.

“Abigail,” I whispered harshly, “I-I’m f-f-fuckin’  _ tired _ !”

“Aw come on,” she whined, “I’ve been waiting to hang out all day! You know I can’t come over anymore!”

“And whose fault is that,” I snapped.

“Eugh, grow  _ up _ , Josephine.” She kicked the pebbles at the base of Carrie’s tulips away from her sneakers. She glanced up at me like an imp getting away with a lie. “You got my stuff?” 

“Don’t-- Don’t say it like that,” I scolded, “you make it sound like crack or something.” 

She stuck her tongue out, fluttering her fingers around her face in a mocking fashion. As I stuck my leg out of my window, she jumped up and down in the place she stood, looking up at me with bright eyes. She was waiting at the base of the house by the time I made it down the side of my home; the lattice structured from the ground to my bedroom window made for a malleable, safe ladder. 

Standing on her toes, her lips brushed against my bandaged cheek from utter excitement, and I felt the tips of my ears burn in surprise. 

“Listen,” her voice was high; hazelnut eyes brightened into these shining jewels. “ _ Listen _ .” Her voice, as I remember it, was like a lovebird. Do you know the way a lovebird mimics songs and voices they’ve heard for so long? Her behavior was similar to that. When we were younger, she had more interests in belonging, despite her niche interests and isolation from most of the people at the public school. Yet, she had friends outside of me; had connections and opportunities I did not have the privilege to gain. I never held this against her, or I never admitted that I did so. She was like my sister, and we were two people forced together, and she did everything in her power to allow me to depend on her. 

Her black fingernails tapped against my cheekbone. “Hel _ lo,  _ anybody in there?”

“What?”

Abigail giggled, rolling her eyes before she held out her hand, moving her fingers back and forth expectantly and giving a mischievous stare. Sighing, I reached into the specific jacket’s inner pocket, and retrieved a box of cigarettes. One that Carrie wouldn’t miss. 

She quietly squealed. “Yes, oh my  _ God _ , Josephine you  _ fucker _ !” Her warm arms wrapped around me, and I felt myself willingly sink into her. I patted her upper back, twisting my mouth around from conflict while she pulled away. She was smiling level at me, her hands placed onto my shoulders. Abigail cocked her head to the side, signalling our departure to somewhere more inconspicuous. I followed her from my backyard, travelling shortly behind her down the trail and through a bramble of young trees and bushes, probably including poison ivy. Dozens of three pairs of leaves beckoned to us, tugging at our skin and our clothing, but we forced ourselves through the unwalked path, and made our way down to the dock of a small pond. 

The way my home was built in town is it was near the edge, and among many that formed a large, incomplete circle. Inside this circle were a couple small trails through the dense woods that made all of our backyards. Through a large part of this wood was an ever larger lake, which spread out through what varied between small creeks in the dry months, to a flowing stream that washed away all the debris and branches of growing trees in the wet months. It was common that my neighbors would use this lake for swimming or fishing, usually on days the beach was closed or two crowded for anyone else to fit into. It was not clean, mind you, but the water was always cool and welcoming. 

It was at this lake that me and Abigail finally reached after ten minutes of treading through the underbrush and unkempt foliage of the woods. We climbed onto a small, unfinished wooden dock. She tossed down her bag, before dangling her legs over the edge of the water, and leaning back to face upwards toward the cloudy night sky. I joined her, falling to the boards; my heart pounded as I heard the wood and nails creak underneath us in anticipation, my entire body tensed, ready to run as if the dock would collapse at any second. It would lead us into the water, trap us there to enter shock and drown if we were not careful. I turned my head towards Abigail.

“What’d we come all the way here for?”

She lulled her head over to one side, looking at me with raised golden eyebrows and kicking her legs back and forth over the water. “Welll…” She turned her back to me, unzipping the main holder of her bag and rummaging through it, clicking her tongue and humming to herself. My scratching of my own nose abruptly ended when she turned back, holding a thin metal sheet in both of her hands. 

“I got you something!” Abigail sung, gazing at me with such happiness in her eyes, like a parent watching a kid open their presents with the idea they were from a fictional Claus. But Abigail knew the truth. 

I took it from her, closely examining it in the dark, with only my flashlight and the stars to reflect off of it. “What is it?”

“Open it.”

The hinges on the small box clicked as I opened up whatever was inside. My jaw dropped as I looked up at her.

“You didn’t.” I let my index finger run along the first ditch of color, the eyeshadow melting onto my fingerprint and leaving itself a plentiful mask. I rubbed it between my finger and thumb, closing it in towards my face to get a better look: a beautiful and strange blue-violet, glitter embedded into it and leaving this beautiful sheen. I was left speechless. “Abigail. You didn’t.”

“No, of  _ course _ I fuckin’ didn’t. This is all a hallucination, obviously.”

“Abigail…” my voice gave out. I leaned my head against her shoulder, staring down at all the indiscernible colors that blended into the dark, yet reflected from the mirror base that sat inside the palette. 

“Oh my  _ God _ , you fuckin’ dork, you’re  _ wel _ come. It’s just makeup. It cost me, like, nothing.”

We sat next to each other, my head on her collarbone, for what felt like an eternity. She gave me a brief scare when she pulled out her lighter, and lit up one of her fresh cigarettes, giving a deep inhale, and out of nowhere smoke poured out from her mouth like a victim from a fire. Her breathing was deep, her chest caving in unnaturally as she did so. What a fearless woman she was to never hold her breath, not even once out of hesitation.

“Abigail,” my voice cracked, dry from the hour neither of us spoke. I forced my body to swallow, hydrating my tongue enough to flick it against my lips and at my gums. 

“What?” She flicked the butt of her finished cigarette away, into the water of the lake, where the fire of it burned against the water, before swiftly extinguishing. It floated there aimlessly. I watched her, my eyes narrowing as she pulled out another cigarette from the stolen box, and lit it, bringing the second one to her lips that night. Whatever ecstasy she felt as she did so, I could not begin to understand it, yet it was like that with me for all “earthly sins”. I watched her take the first drag of her cigarette, her middle finger tapping against the body of it and dropping the ashes onto the wood beneath us. 

I curled up to her. Her hand gently rubbed against my scalp, fingers dragging against my hair and catching on the thick, dark brown coils. She pulled her hand away slowly as I flinched from the pull of it.

“Sorry,” Abigail murmured. 

“How can you… tell that you’re friends with someone?”

“You sneak dope ass cigarettes to them, obviously.”

“Shut up.” I grinned at her shortly. The corners of my lips quickly dropped to neutrality, my brow scrunching together. My view remained of the lake, watching flies of the fire move into light before dimming into nothingness, flitting about the surface in want of companionship. “I mean-- on a spiritual level. Something more connected and emotional, you know? Like-- like uhh, you feel like you’re meant to know this person.”

I felt her eyes watch me, before following my gaze out into the water, her attention drowning beneath the still, murky surface. “...Do you think we have that?” Abigail asked me. 

“I don’t know.” I allowed my nails to tap against the outer layer of the palette in my lap. I traced letters over the shell. A. V. X. M. M. M. M…

“Well… I think as kids we don’t feel it. Maybe we feel it as we get older,” I continued. 

“Hm.”

“Oh, uh, I think it’s good we hang out,” I explained to her, “I was talking more hypothetically.”

“What does ‘hypatelapathy’ mean?”

“It…” I shook my head, “a made up situation. If you can tell if you’re supposed to meet someone.” The scrape under my bandaids began to itch, the sensation reaching up my entire forearm, until my hand glided up my sweat sleeve and began to pull at the bandages and skin around my injury. I watched everything grow still, more still as I pinched at my skin and let it grow white between my long, uneven nails. 

Abigail took a long drag of her cigarette, exhaling the smoke through her nose as she snuffed the half-smoked cigarette butt out on the board of the dock. She gave another long exhale, the leftover tar in her lungs blowing out through her downturned nostrils. “Listen, Josephine…” she began. “In my opinion, you should apply yourself more to meeting other people. I like you. I think that you'd feel less hurt if you talked to someone else. Maybe you’d be happier. I dunno, I’m just spouting shit off.”

When I said nothing, Abigail stood, and stuffed the box of cigarettes into the front pocket of her backpack. 

“Come on. I want to go home.”

I felt regret, seeing her stand there, facing me, and watching her weight of her body shift left to right, herself fidgeting from impatience. “Thanks Abigail.”

Her diverted eyes looked over to me in surprise, just like the many times I spoke after such a long silence. I swallowed. She smiled at me. “No problem. You need anything else?”

“No, this will last me,” I slightly held out the palette, before tightening my grip on it and holding it close to my body once again. 

“‘Kay,” She responded softly.

I collapsed into bed when I returned to my room. The quiet helped me close my eyes, its fingers tugging down my eyelids to allow me to rest in peace, unmoving as a corpse. 


	3. past

It was a late spring night. The evenings were hot and the days even hotter, while I was still in school. I was eight years old, my hair short and curly and kempt, when my mother still took me to a stylist. Carrie, Bo, and I sat at the kitchen table. We just finished our prayers, and Bo sat solemnly at the head of the table, like the strange authority he claimed in the family hierarchy. The room was silent, all for the clinking of glasses and sounds of silverware tapping against the fine china plates. I watched Carrie quietly chew on her salad, glancing over to me,who ate away at the homemade mac and cheese. That was one of the very occasional times Carrie smiled at me. This genuine and full smile between her barbie pink lips. I looked over to her with wide eyes, giving her a large smile in return as we both chewed. I was innocent then, for a short time. I swayed my legs energetically to and fro in my chair as I got another forkful of my dinner, picking at the breaded mac and cheese and eyeing my glass of apple juice with future eagerness. Carrie returned a small, wiggly smile to myself, before looking back down at her plate and shoving a small serving of salad, drenched in salad dressing, into her mouth. 

Bo cleared his throat, reaching for his glass and downing a bit of water before returning it to the tablecloth. He coughed a couple more times, covering his mouth with his napkin. 

“Are you okay, daddy,” I asked him, my head cocking to the side so exaggerated like and watched him with doe eyes. Bo looked up at me, his brow furrowed and eyes darkened. He kept a straight face, nodding once before looking back down at his salad and factory-quality steak.

“Yeah, I’ms okay.”

“Bo… dear… ” the three of us could all hear the silence in the room echo and buzz in our ears, giving off this severe tinnitus. It almost loomed around our table in the dimly lit room, the only source of brightness coming from the perks of sunlight from behind the closed curtains, and the overhead light above our dining table. When Bo got home from work, he ordered that the house become dark, so he could rest his eyes and shield them from the straining brightness. Carrie shifted in her seat uncomfortably as she glanced around, noticing the pictures on their walls staring at the three of us with these dead eyes, following her no matter where she angled herself or moved. Bo’s parents, her parents, the parents’ parents, far relatives she had no idea if they were alive or not. She sighed anxiously.

“Um, so, Bo,” she felt her cheeks begin to grow hotter, “I mean-- honey. darling.” Carrie pressed her hand against her chest innocent, her bust large and feminine. She looked up at him with lidded eyes, revealing her pink eyeshadow covering her face with her natural blush. She held her fork daintily, setting it down onto the tablecloth next to her salad bowl. “You know the weather has been so much nicer lately.”

Carrie looked up across the table, seeing Bo nod calmly to himself. “It’s July around now, and the heat up here on the hill is killing everybody.” I watched her blankly, my little child heart beating with excitement as I downed my juice and looked at her with such honorable, high expectations. “I was thinking, some time this week, us and Josephine could travel down to the creek, the deep part you--” she cleared her throat, covering her lips with her fist before dabbing the corner of her lips with her napkin-- “you know, and go swimming there.

“No risk of little Josephine getting sick,” Carrie mentions.

She looked across the opposite seat at the table and smiled at me, before turning back to Bo and watching them think to himself and stare at their food. 

“No,” Bo stated moodlessly, taking a bite of his food. Carrie felt her heart sink, looking over to me. I played the game every child played, wanting to get what I wanted and finally have a day with the family down at the town’s beach. I looked at Bo then back to her with large, upset eyes. Carrie’s brow furrowed sadly. 

“Um, Bo,” Carrie said a little quieter, “Josephine really wants to go swimming.”

“He’s not allowed to go. If you want to go yourselves you can do that. I’ve been working all week.”

“That’s not what I’m saying, Bo,” Carrie comments, lowering her voice down to a whisper. She was stuck staring at Bo, her face contorting into something so very concerned, growing more worried from how frozen he was in their seat. 

Without a word, he snapped his fingers. “Out,” Bo muttered. Bo looked up at Carrie, brow turned downwards against his eyes, his eyes burning from seething anger. 

I became this background observer, a witness to the chaos that broke out in our kitchen that night. Carrie stood from her seat, her hands planted against the table, her chin raised defiantly as she ground the tips of her heels into the linoleum floor.

“No.”

Bo raised his voice. “I ain’t doing it, Carrie.”

“Dear,” she begins, “it’d only be a couple hours or so. We’d have fun, and have some burgers and hotdogs. I could suntan and catch up on reading. You could do whatever you wanted down there: drink beer, sit on a float. It’d be wonderful.” She gives a smile, trying to cover up her own nervousness. I was there, watching her, thinking she was invincible. “It-it would be good for you, being out in the sun and all. You’d feel a lot better I’m sure.”

“I said no, Carrie.”

“Bo, please--”

Bo’s head snapped up and looked at her, squinting his eyes and his wrinkles coming up on his face like old scars. “You don’t talk to me that way,” he says as he points the end of his fork at Carrie, voice raising high enough to shake the entire house down. Quickly, he began to cough again, grabbing his glass and gulping down half of what was left before setting it down tiredly. “Fuckin’ kid.” he mumbles as he rubs his forehead.

“What about our kid, Bo,” Carrie defends, “the fact that I’ve been taking care of him for the past eight years? The fact you barely even look at him without getting this look on your face like he’s nothing but a pile of shit? You never try to spend time with him.”

“I’m spending time with you two right now,” Bo looked to me, raising his brow and smacking his palm against the tabletop, “you like having dinner with us, right?”

I was too scared to say anything, only staring at him before looking down at my lap. I slowly sunk down into my chair, hiding myself underneath the table. My hands clutched at the white tablecloth, holding it between my fingers and nearly succeeding in hiding myself in it, like a forcefield to protect myself from the shouting.

“See,” Bo proved as he turned back and faced Carrie, “it’s fine.” He raised his hand, gesturing it to me like I was a type of display. Carrie stood there, rock solid and firm, her posture slumping over in frustration. 

“Fucking hell.” She pinched the spot between her eyebrows, looking to the floor in exhaustion. She picked up her empty bowl and dumped her fork into it, the fork knocking against the ceramic with several loud clangs. “You always do this,” Carrie mumbled.

“What?”

“Nothing,” Carrie said louder, clenching her teeth as her neck snapped toward Bo.

“What did you say,” Bo aggressively insisted, resting his forearms on the table as he stared at Carrie. There was always so much nothing in his eyes, as when he was angry or anything at all, you could see the hatred fill his irises . His eyes remain half open, staring at Carrie strangely. Carrie swallowed the lump in her throat, but I don’t think it ever went down. I think it stayed there forever, and stayed there every time she opened her mouth to call us down for dinner, or waking up next to Bo on his days off. She had never swallowed so much in her life until after that particular fight.

“You’re-you’re never here with us, Bo. I-” she looked away from him, looking down at me, only to find my chair empty. I was at a vantage point that she couldn’t see me, but I could observe her from my hiding place underneath the table. Her voice lowered to a calmer tone. “I just thought we could all spend time as a family.”

Bo let out a loud scoff, shaking his head and clenching his hand into a fist. His other hand laid on his thigh, gripping it with angering force. “You don’t understand.”

“I don’t understand,” Carrie screamed out, her voice rumbling in this unrestrained rage. “You go to work where you sit on your ass, then come home and sit on your ass the rest of the day. You don’t try to be different. You’re just like your father. You’re a pig.”

“Fuck you, you bitch,” Bo let out, standing up from his chair. His hands planted on the tabletop, he glared at Carrie, fire in his eyes. He raised his hand, pointing at her with a large and square finger, covered in old calluses and layers of dead skin. “I’m doin’ everything I can to keep this entire-- entire family—in order and you’re tellin’ me I don’t care? You’re the one who doesn’t give a shit.”

“Don’t talk to me like that,” Carrie cries out, getting louder. “That’s all bullshit.”

“I’m the one doin’ everything, Carrie,” Bo roared, “you think I wanted a child? I never considered it. You’re the whore who wanted one, and now that you’re stuck with him you’re blamin’ me. You should’ve kept your damn legs closed.”

There was silence. Nothing.

Carrie stared at Bo, her eyes red. She breathed in, only to give an audible sniff. The two of them stared at each other. I flinched, launching my tiny and frail body back as Carrie clutched her bowl. She screamed, throwing it across the room to Bo and smashing it to pieces at his feet. He took a single step back, but only stood there and said nothing as he looked down to the shards of the bowl spread along the kitchen tiles. 

“Fuck you,” Carrie shouted, “fuck you.”

Carrie started to shake as she began to unwillingly cry. She caught her sobs, trying to calm herself but, but it only made it worse. She turned on her heels, clapping her heels against the floor as Bo collapsed down onto his kitchen chair. With tired eyes, and a weakened stature, Bo buried his face into his large, bear-paw like hands. He rubbed his face and scratched at the scruff growing along his cheeks and chin. Carrie didn’t say a word as she crouched down, smoothing out her dress across her lap as she looked at me, curled up and staring at her from under the table. I was not a persuasive, cute child; one could admire me not. She grabbed me by my arm, pulling me out from under the table, gentle enough she didn’t harm me more than the tight grip and pricks in my skin her long, manicured nails caused on me. Carrie picked me up and stood there for a moment. I let her hold me, not making a sound. Carrie gave a shaky breath, glancing to me and then looking back at Bo, who remained at the table and said nothing; she began to walk out. 

Carrie stepped out into the hallway, holding me and pressing my head close to the crook of her neck. Carrie simply sighed and made her way towards the stairs. She kissed at my head, running her fingers through my hair and scratching at my scalp. I felt this immense comfort then, feeling myself close to her and feeling her arms around me. I could feel childish tears roll down my cheeks, burying my face into her shoulder and whimpering. I never registered a single thing; I was upset because I knew we wouldn’t make it to the lake to swim that day. I didn’t even know how to swim. I never learned how to swim, actually. 


	4. friendship

_ Wake up! _

I jolted awake, my body shaking as it shot into consciousness. The side of my face squished against my pillow, my clothes from last night the only cover for comfort; my body set against my duvet. My exposed ear strained from surprise, the leftover echo of the scream resonating through my canal and to the drum, where it let out solitary rings of awareness. I laid there, frozen, glancing around and marking the corners of my room as safe. My breathing, at first reckless and fearful, finally slowed after a few moments, realizing I was finally alone. I rubbed against my eye, wiping away the dried crust from the corners, where once the pressure of the mattress caused tears to fall onto the pillowcase. I looked down at my own body. My other arm remained wrapped around the small, thin box of makeup gifted to me by Abigail.

It was the next morning, marking a time in early July.

“Josephine,” Carrie’s voice distantly boomed against the walls of the house, trudging up the stairs, and forcing its hands underneath my door, leaking in through the cracks. I groggily sat up, yawning and giving my knuckles a lazy crack. Hopping out of bed, I kicked at the box under my bed, behind two other normal storage boxes filled with old papers belonging in the trash, and a box of clothes that no longer fit me. I knelt down, onto my hands and knees, and removed the box from its hiding place. Quickly, I opened it. Moving aside the other small palettes, delicate application brushes, and small cylinders of lipstick, eyeliner, and mascara, I set the newest addition to my collection inside. I smiled to myself, my heart racing as I looked at everything I had obtained over the years, both from my secrecy in spending, to the generosity and benefits of Abigail’s friendship. 

“ _ Jose _ phine!” Carrie called a second time. I messily grabbed the lid of the box, putting it onto the old box and sloppily shoving it back beneath my bed, into the depths of the darkness that held plentiful dust bunnies and their friends. A spider or two, perhaps? Thinking of it made me shudder. 

Her calls coming from the front of the house, I put on my shoes and trudged towards our front door. I held the screen door open, standing there, as Carrie stood opposite of me. Her free hand rested on the headrest of Bo’s living room chair, which he sat on every evening as he drank and grumbled about everything that displeased him. She had moved it all the way outside onto our porch, sheltered under our overhang roof. In her other hand, were small and precise metal scissors, which she held up to her chest and pointed them accusingly at me. 

“Come sit down right here.” Carrie smacked the center of the chair. 

“What are we doing?”

“There’s an event at church on Sunday. I’d rather drop dead than have you go to it with that rat’s nest you have on your head.” Her freshly red lips pursed at me, her eyes looking me up and down in concern.

“Did you sleep in those clothes?”

I couldn’t look at her. I felt my shoulders flush into heat. “No.”

“ _ Damm _ it, Josephine, you know I hate when you do that.” She cursed to herself, walking a couple steps across the porch and grabbing ahold of my arm. “Come on.”

“Ow…!” I hissed, feeling her hand forcibly run down my bandaids, the glue of them painfully pulling at my skin. 

“Be quiet. It doesn’t hurt.” Carrie began to lead me to the chair, pulling my full weight along as I did my best to fall limp in her arms. Despite my best efforts, the infantile-like ways of avoiding punishment did not work when you were a much more developed older teenager. 

“Why do I need a haircut?”

She grabbed my shoulders, her manicured, artificial nails gripping my skin and forming indentations. She pushed me down into the chair. “Because I said so.” Now do as you’re--” when I angled my body and attempted to move away from her, she grabbed my shoulders again and firmly pushed me back to lean against the back of the chair-- “ _ told _ .”

“Stop,” I blurted out, my emotions taking control of my lips and my tongue. Biting my tongue with the ends of my teeth did nothing to keep myself silent. 

“Cut that attitude out right now,” Carrie yelled. She roughly smacked her palm against the back of my head. Grumbling to herself, she took a large handful of my hair, before taking her scissors and beginning to snip away at what she deemed was the halfway mark of the length of it. “I swear to the Lord himself, where did I go  _ wro _ ng?” 

I heard the snips, the snaps, the way the scissors grazed against its own metal every time the blades met together after a successful cut of the obstacle before it. This hair, and the way it was made. My hair, my head born covered in it. Never meant to be cut like this. 

It reminded me of the story of Samson, where his wife cut his hair while he was sleeping, draining him of any power that God gifted him through the divineness of his uncut hair. I could feel myself shrinking, my own body growing weaker the more she cut away at my scalp. 

“The hell did I do to make you so different from me or your father.” Hurt. Why did it always hurt so much. Being different was good, wasn’t it? Shouldn’t it have been?

“Mama.” I cringed at the sudden pain, given by her pull on my hair. The cutting continued. “I don’t want my hair short.”

“We are cutting it, and we are  _ keep _ ing it short. Boys don’t have long hair. You’re no  _ girl _ .” 

My grip of my own hands tightened, feeling the sharp edges of the scissors harshly grazing against my head. “Ow!” 

Carrie gasped. “Shut the hell up!” 

I winced, feeling the back of her hand smack against my head. I covered my head with my arms, crossing them over until my fingers met the back of my neck. My heart palpitated feeling her hands return to my body, her fingers running down my head and onto my shoulders, running them along my collarbone. 

“You need to start taking care of yourself. What’ll you do when me and your dad are gone?”

My breath shook. Closing my eyes, I stuttered out “why do you hate me?”

“Don’t be dramatic. You know how much I love you, Josephine.” My view was obstructed, but I clearly felt her grab my left wrist, pulling my arm away from my torso and forcing it over to her. I secretly watched her from the corner of my eye as she pulled back my old sweater sleeve and the jacket’s, looking at the day old bandaids surrounding my bruised skin. “...did you hurt yourself again?”

“No,” I told her firmly. “It wasn’t on purpose. It--”

“Stop talking.” Throwing my arm down, she tucked the scissors into the pocket of her apron, before turning and walking to the front door. “Just go,” she called back to me.

“Go where?”

“Anywhere. Do whatever you want,” her voice wavered, weakening from her constricted vocal chords. She gave a shaky breath, leaning her hand against the frame of the front door as the screen stood open. “Do what _ ever _ you  _ want _ .”

Tears began to run down my face as the screen door clicked shut. I was lost now. It took everything in me to not run back into the house, begging for Carrie’s forgiveness and asking her to please not be mad at me. I was a good kid, I would listen to her, I wouldn’t let myself get upset like that again. I wouldn’t let myself get hurt. What a fool I was! All that I believed revolved around these people that I identified as my family. That I willingly called people who were meant to relate to me. 

I walked from henceforth here to there. I was lost among my mind, and I could feel my cheeks begin to drench in saltwater. I rubbed my palm against my uncovered cheek, raising from my chair and dragging my feet to the sidewalk. I gave myself no direction. I walked. I couldn’t let myself think, there was nothing but white noise. Like the static a television gives when a channel ends its daily programming, the way it interrupts all cohesive thought and speech you attempt to give yourself in your mind. I had to have that. 

I passed a tire swing, passed a large, elder tree, and made my way to the side of a house. 

“No.” I smacked my own forehead. “Fuck off. No.” I felt the pounding against my own head, light and subtle pounds to distract my brain from the focus on current events. Frustrated, I had kicked the side of the house hard enough it sent me reeling back and falling onto my thighs. I covered my face. “No.”

I heard a distant door slide open. “Who’s there?” A voice from the back of the house called out.

“Nobody. Casper. God, I don’t know.” I stared at the ground, the grass blurring into my legs from the way the tears inhibited my already declining vision. I coughed, clearing my throat of the phlegm given to it from my running nose. Heavy, yet stable footsteps made their way from a hard stone and onto the soft, shaded grass, rounding the corner and stopping a foot away from me. 

“Josephine?” It was Ozzy. 

I looked up at him, finding him in long striped sweatpants, flip flops, and another tank top; this time it was a soft baby pink. It really complemented his features, to be honest. Pink suited him. “Oh. This is your house,” I said in dense realization.

“Um, why are you here? What happened?” I squinted at his face, seeing the seafoam glaring bullets at my head. I rubbed my eyes, sniffing deeply and planting my hand to the dirt, placing my legs into the crouching position.

“Nothing. I was just leaving.” 

His voice was desperate. “Are you sure you don’t wanna come in?”

“A--I--A-Am I al _ low _ ed to?”

He placed his hands on his hips, one of them cocking to the side as the opposite leg straightened out to an angle along the soft terrain. “Well why wouldn’t you be?”

“Okay,” I muttered after a long pause in the air between us. 

With a large smile across his face, Ozzy crossed me and led me back to the front of his house. Up the steps, he took the spare key from inside one of the pillows that sat on their swinging bench, which hung from the roof over their roomy front porch. He turned the knob, escorting me inside with a large, fancy gesture of his arm. I stepped inside, my eyes taken aback by the colorful decor that littered his new house. The entryway led to a small open floor, which harbored an open entrance to the living room on the left, and the kitchen on the right. The entry’s walls, along with the den, were a vibrant teal. It would throw anyone off, to be honest. Ozzy appeared beside me, wiping his shoes off with the rug beneath us and quickly throwing them off, tucking them underneath an ottoman that sat against the wall. Above it was a hanging, ticking cat clock. He outstretched his arms, reaching around me to my front.

“Let me take your jacket.” I inhaled, feeling his hands grasp at the sides of my jacket. I squirmed out of it, his confident tug leaving me in my sweater and shorts in no time. He carefully hung it on the coat rack that faced the ottoman and clock.

“Should I take off my shoes?”

“Yes, please.”

“Okay.” My voice was small. I grabbed the back of my sneakers, and pulled them off of my feet, bending over to place them under the ottoman, where Ozzy’s recent pair of flip flops were, and a pair of bejeweled sandals I hadn’t seen before.

I rubbed my arm, standing straight to look up at him. I couldn’t stand it for long, turning my head away when I noticed he was staring back at me; only staring and breathing those long, calming breaths. 

“My mom wouldn’t stop touching me,” I blurted out.

“Oh.” He froze, and his face twisted into genuine, offended disgust. He frowned at me, mouth forming into a worried sneer. “Eugh.”

“Not like that. Idiot…” I trailed off, intending to keep my disrespectful mouth shut and give him the benefit of the doubt, something I didn’t do with most people. It made sense as to why I was seen by many as unsociable. “She kept touching my  _ hair _ . I couldn’t sit there. I didn’t want to.” 

An unending pause set upon the two of us, filling the small room with dense air, and leaving me aware of too many noises. The ticking of the clock, its eyes shifting left to right and back again. The creaks of the house, the ringing in my ear, my breathing, my heartbeat, everything culminating into this too loud echo. It was too much to stand, I couldn’t think with it in my head, my thoughts unable to coherently process. I couldn’t stand it. My throat expanded. “I look stupid, don’t I?” I volumously blubbered out.

“No?”

It took me a minute, before realizing what part he was referring to. I gave a small laugh, despite my mood. “Not-- Not this.” I grabbed the locks of my hair that still remained past my shoulders. I tugged at them, straightening out the curls and giving a hiss. “ _ This _ .”

“Ah!” His brow arched. He tapped his foot in a monotonous rhythm, looking away and towards the wall covered in pictures and framed papers. “I mean… it’s a little sad.” 

“Ok--”

“Could I help? You think?” Ozzy interrupted. His mouth stretched into a line. “I’m sorry, you go first.”

“Why would you want to do that?” 

“Why not?” He raised his arms confidently, shrugging his shoulders and taking on a humorous newscaster voice. “As well as a doctor, I am also a licensed stylist. Your type of hair is my specialty, see?”

I tried to be furious with him for even trying to joke about it, but in all honesty, my snorts couldn’t be stopped. I furrowed my eyebrows, my facial muscles straining to keep down. I couldn’t hold back a smile as I pointed at him, pressing the tip of my nail against his chest and looking up at him in burning anger. “How do I know you won’t make it worse? You’re just trying to trick me to hurt me.”

“Hey, we talked once, right? I didn’t do anything. Besides, I don’t think anything can look worse than, well…  _ that _ .”

“Oh my  _ God _ .” I hid my face away with the palms of my hands. Shame filled my heart, and I was ready to start crying all over again. I wiped a growing tear from my eye, giving a shaky inhale as Ozzy quietly stepped towards me. He nearly walked past me, when I grabbed the side of his tank top, and weakly attempted to pull him back. “I don’t want to go alone.”

“Oh, uh, okay.” He awkwardly began to move his arm around in the air, in some unnatural twisting motions, before settling with exposing the underside of his arm to the ceiling. His hand extended outward, offering it to me in the casual sense. Hesitantly, I took it, and felt the warmth from his body envelop my hand, warming it to the bone and relaxing my constantly tense muscles.

He led me over towards the entrance of the kitchen, and into the closed door by the stairs. Stepping into the full bathroom, he gestured for me to sit down on the side of the tub. I watched him open the medicine cabinet above the porcelain sink, moving aside a couple empty pill bottles and spare toothbrushes, before his hand emerged with a small pair of scissors. He turned back to me, and wordlessly tapping his knuckles against the side of my thigh, he ordered that I flip around. I did so, my feet on the bottom of the tub, my hands supporting my upper weight on the side. I held my breath, heart skipping beats as I felt his hand move under my chin, lifting my head up by a couple inches, before returning to hover over the top of my scalp. 

Ozzy delicately grasped at my ruined curls, rubbing at them and feeling the texture of my hair underneath the tips of his fingers. Ever so slowly, he cut away at the out of place lock, holding up a stray, previously cut lock for comparison against the difference. It went like that for God knows how long, him comparing, then cutting, then comparing again. This wonderful perfectionist worked at my hair as if I was really some important figure, in need of the best quality of anything that existed. My shaking began to lessen, which he made no comment over, and I could feel my breathing come down to something I could vaguely control. He never uttered a word the entire time. After what seemed like thirty minutes of complete silence, I opened my mouth again. 

“Ozzy.”

“Mmm,” he hummed.

I wrung my hands, looking down at them and reflecting on all the lightened, healed cuts across my fingers and the meat of my hand. I tried my best to not move, I really did. “Do I look…  _ fem _ inine to you?”

Snips sounded off from above my ears. “Hm, no. I don’t think so,” Ozzy pondered, “you’re a very androgynous person.” He pushed his first two fingers against my cheek, tilting my angled head back into place for an even cut. I began to bounce my leg, the heel of my bare foot slapping against the tub and causing the noise to echo around the enclosed bathroom.

“What does that mean,” I asked him.

“Well, you know, you don’t look like a woman...”  _ Snip _ …  _ Snip…  _ “but not entirely like a man either.”

There was a long pause. I let out a pitiful laugh, one I couldn’t help after hearing those obscene slaps from my foot continue after such an awkward silence. Ozzy retracted his hands, allowing me to raise my arm and run my fingers through my hair. “I feel like I’m going crazy.”

“I wouldn’t say  _ that _ ,” he assured me, “I think your mom is crazy for wanting to cut your hair off. Hair is important. I think it says a lot about a person.”

“My mom used to not believe in cutting hair.”

His hands returned to my scalp, scratching at it and gently tussling my hair, causing a deep shiver to run up my spine. I appreciated this contact for as long as I possibly could, before he returned to cutting it. “When’d she change her mind?”

“I don’t know.”

He huffed, seemingly frustrated, before giving a final snip. The scissors gave a loud clamber as he set them down onto the sink, and put both of his hands into my hair. He began to rustle it, poorly attempting to fluff it up in a presentable way. “Well, to each their own! But in my opinion, you looked beautiful with your hair as it was.”

“...What--”

“Okay! Done.” I turned back at him, hurriedly standing up to get past him and look for the closest mirror. 

“Your professional haircut is finished, that’ll be one hundred thousand dollars.” Ozzy placed his hand on my arm, gesturing to the mirror that hung opposite the door. I turned and looked at myself. I laughed, once or twice, before my smile faded and I saw myself standing there, alive and existing. My eyes lightened. My hands touched the sides of my face, pressing my cheeks inward, and I examined every corner of my hair. It was even, and done, and not perfect, but good enough. It was lighter, reaching down to my chin, framing my face like an average medium length cut. 

“It’s… short.”

“Is it alright?”

Seeing him standing behind me in the mirror, I had to turn, looking him straight into those jeweled eyes. I took a deep breath, giving a sad smile to him. “Thank you,” I told him. 

Ozzy smiled back at me. Grinned even. The same, clueless, innocent, and genuine grin I was always greeted with whenever we met each other’s gaze. He patted my back. “I’m always left with happy clients.”

“Why don’t you make fun of me more?”

“Why would I in the first place? You’re a good person.”

The following week, I was coming to his house every day. 


	5. trees

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They find time for the woods and Ozzy acts childish.

**FIVE**

I stood on top of an embroidered welcome mat, decorated with flowers and different kinds of flora, with a fancy, calligraphy “WELCOME” plastered across its center. I nervously knocked on the door, light and polite knocks. I wore a green flannel that day, with dark pants and black sneakers. The only pair of shoes I could stand, really, because I knew for a fact neither Bo nor Carrie ever dared to touch them. Therefore, I knew they were untampered with.

Shuffling came from inside the house, the noises emanating from the open windows like the very first day I came across the building, and I jumped as I heard the door unlock with a sharp  _ clork. _ Ozzy appeared in the doorway, his eyes brightening with stars as he saw me. He adjusted his t-shirt, trying to tuck it into his shorts as he moved out of the way of the opening.

“Come in!” Ozzy excitedly yipped. I followed suit, stepping inside and quickly tearing off my shoes and socks, stuffing my socks into my shoes for another time. He walked me into the living room, where the bay window sat open, curtains drawn back to show the bright late morning sun and the leaves shaking from the slight wind. He sat down upon the floor, over a mess of rugs varying in size, pattern, and color. It was a real mess on the eyes, but to Ozzy, it was more than suitable. In front of him laid a large notebook, all of the pages lined, but covered in tape, sticky notes, and pictures of all kinds from differing magazines. I sat down next to him, leaning my head over to peek at the work he was doing. He held up his scissors.

“What’s that?” I pointed at his journal, doing my best to be casual.

“I collect pictures I like. Different things.” He snapped off a piece of tape, pasting a cutout of a bowl of macaroni and cheese onto a blank page of the book. I giggled at this. Rattling noise came from the kitchen, before footsteps came to the living room, and by the base of the stairs stood a lady that was well in her fifties. 

“Ozzy, who came in?”

“This is Josephine, Mommy. I told you about him.”

“Oh, my son’s new friend,” she said enthusiastically, grinning to reveal a large gap between her teeth. She had this calming, deep voice. Not as if it was a man’s, but one with a soothing feminine touch that kept its deep development, like the voice of Mother Nature herself. She was beautiful. Her hair flowed down to her hips, a shawl wrapped around her like a swaddled baby. A bandana covered her head, forcing her hair away from her soft face. Her lips were natural, and thick, her face full and only just thinning from age. She stood naturally tall, almost reaching Ozzy in height. Her figure was thin, nonexistent in curves or noticeable female features. She walked over to us, bending down and offering her long, slender hand out to me. It was tan, yet bony and frail. I took it, and it was then I felt the warmth of a real mother for the very first time in my life. 

“I’m Josephine,” I mumbled, shaking her hand, before returning mine to my lap. 

“I’m Miss Damonis,” she warmly spoke. “Where did you come from?” She spoke strangely. A deep accent flitted in her voice, and yet I couldn’t put my finger on where it was from. 

“I’m in the neighborhood,” I answered, loosely wrapping my arms around my crossed legs. “I like to see Ozzy sometimes.”

“So good.” She said to me, “Ozzy has no friends here yet. We just move from up North. Ozzy, did you ask if he’s hungry?”

“No Mommy, he’s not hungry.”

“Hush.” She waved him away, looking at me with dark, friendly eyes. “I make you anything you ask. What do you want to eat?”

“I’m okay…” I looked to Ozzy, my voice dying out as she spoke up again.

“No, no! You’ll eat here!”

“Actually, we were just leaving, Mommy. We’re going out to walk around.”

“Oh, you make things so difficult!” Miss Damonis exclaimed, smacking the air in Ozzy’s direction. Ozzy leaned back, swiftly getting to his feet and laughing at his mother. Ozzy smacked my shoulder as he speed-walked back to the door, and I did my best to stand and go with him. “Where are you going?”

“I want to go explore,” Ozzy explained, “we’ll be back soon, I promise.”

“Oh,” she grumbled, grabbing and pinching at Ozzy’s full cheek. He smiled at her, his hands hovering over her arms, and he leaned over and planted a kiss onto her cheek. She patted his back, bringing him in for a hug, before separating and leaving to the kitchen again. I stood there, silently, watching Ozzy, gaging for a reaction to all of the strange, sudden affection. 

“What’s wrong?” Ozzy cocked his head over, finally remembering I existed and was sharing a room with them.

“Nothing.”

“Before you go,” Miss Damonis called from the kitchen, running back to us with a wrapper in her hand, “take this. It gets hot out.” She shoved an unopened popsicle into my hand. 

“Oh, I--”

“Take it.” 

With the food in both of my hands, Miss Damonis gave me a comforting pat on the head, and I felt myself grow warm. This kind of peace grew inside me, yet died when she retracted her hand and said goodbye to Ozzy for a second time. I stared down at the popsicle, until Ozzy gestured for me to leave with him. Holding the treat between my teeth, I slipped on my shoes, and we stepped outside into the blinding sun. 

Ozzy stood on the sidewalk, hands turned into fists and placed onto his hip bones. He looked to the sky, lips barely parted in amazement. 

“What is it?” I inquired as I stopped right next to him, looking up at his sharp, beautiful face. The sun lightened parts of his face, turning them into this golden bronze tone. 

“The sky is so blue,” he loudly claimed, his voice singing from sheer, young excitement. “The sky was never so blue in Maine! It was so cloudy all the time. That’s amazing, really it is!”

“I… suppose it is?”

I had seen the sky thousands of times before this, hundreds of thousands, even. This was the first time I  _ really _ noticed it. Before, it would be nothing more than a glance at it and I would be done, locked away in my dining room with nothing but studying and writing to do for my mother. Now I was actually looking at it, really looking deep into it, and I couldn’t feel anything except this weightless feeling from staring into an endless void. I was scared that at one point, my feet would detach themselves from the ground, and up I’d go into the neverending blue, hiding away in space until I’d freeze to death. Then, my head would explode, or I’d re-enter the atmosphere as an asteroid, and be sighted as a UFO. My first thought was, would I reach Heaven before I froze to death, or would my impact into the earth as a meteor of some kind be so great that I would crash straight through the layers and right into Hell? I started to feel dizzy. 

“Hey.” I looked at Ozzy, his voice breaking me from my trance. 

“Yeah?”

“You’ve been in the woods before, right?”

“Sure.” I turned my body to him, shoving my hands into my pants pockets. 

He smiled, and my attempt to return it was met with my throat giving a choked laugh. I looked to the ground, kicking the dirt with my shoe. “Sure, yeah, plenty of times.”

He raised his hands up, opening his mouth in ecstasy. “What are we doing here, then? We should go play in the woods!”

The word play was a bit off to me, figuring Ozzy was around my age with plenty more experience in friendship and socialization than me, due to how extraverted he seemed. He gave my hand a strong squeeze, and refused to let go of it as he ran across the street, not watching for cars, mind you, and leading me into the woods. 

I will explain that the parts of the woods Ozzy dragged me into were not safe like most other parts in our town. Most of the woods had developed trails and paths in and out, or had maps and small landmarks to tell where you were. If the woods were small, it was easy to escape from. If the woods were large, it was surrounded by enough houses or commercial buildings, that getting lost in them wouldn’t mean impending doom. Ozzy’s house was not near woods similar to this. Ozzy’s house was on a lonely, two way road that strayed into rural houses at least a mile from each other. The backyards were a hilly plain that you could see miles off into, and see the horizon spotted with the roads and other neighboring houses. In front of Ozzy’s house was the end of the parts of town, and began with miles and miles of dense woodland. Woodlands that held anything from poison ivy, to wolf spiders, to cougars, for all I know. I never stepped foot into those woods alone, terrified I would never make it out if I did.

There’s at least one kid in the state that goes missing every year in those woods, and if I told you I trusted them, I’d be a lying bastard. Some people believe there’s something in those woods, leading people inside when it gets hungry. I almost believe the same thing. I don’t think it's ever hungry. I think, whatever it is, it just likes seeing people suffer.

Abigail once told me she saw something in those woods, like a man, and claimed it was a serial killer that was the cause of anyone entering the treeline disappearing. A couple days later, we found out an elderly man, Mr. Emerson, escaped from his son’s home, and forgot where he was. He barely survived thanks to dehydration, and was in the hospital for a week, leaving himself bedridden for another week. When he was found, he couldn’t recognize his son. He kept asking where his little boy was. Abigail never made claims that she saw anything in those woods again. With all my endless knowledge of the crazy shit that happened in there, I didn’t want to see Ozzy become crushed by the reality that these woods were not something to mess around with. I let him step foot into there.

We entered the woods, taking rushed and speedy steps as we twisted between the trees. Their branches reached to the lapis sky. I ran behind Ozzy, never letting go of his hand, and we walked around and observed the different sights nature had hidden away from plain view. He pointed out a hawk nest many feet in the air, his arm extending to the sky and stretching out his fingers.

“I bet there’s baby birds in there!” He looked down at me. “I wish we could see them. Baby animals are really cute.”

“Yeah. They are,” I mentioned affirmingly. I continued to allow him to lead the way, our hands beginning to stick together from the sweating heat and humidity that filled the summer air. I wiped my brow with the backside of my free hand, thanking Christ I had put my hair to a bun before leaving. 

We spent a couple hours walking around in the woods, leaving sticks standing straight up in the mud if we walked so far in one direction. The idea of leaving something and someone else finding it and being freaked out amused me, so despite the lasting paranoia I could be impaled on it I let Ozzy use it as a marker of our path. We walked next to each other, fingers intertwined, and joked about things like what kind of rednecks lived in the area. He liked to talk about what animals must be native to the place, which I found very insightful. I never really thought about things like that, but he talked as if it was the biggest passion in his life. When I mentioned how I liked to write, he would say nothing until I finished rambling about any strange idea he had. When I was done, he would turn his head to me and bluntly say “that sounds so wonderful” or any other fitting adjective, with a shiny eyes and a beaming grin. It made me grin, too.

It must have been early afternoon by the time we found what we did, deep into those woods. I was walking along, balancing myself on large rocks as Ozzy held onto me, before I hopped down and stopped dead in my tracks. A few feet in front of us stood a bench. An ancient, worn bench, with dark sullen wood and covered my thick ivy. It stood there, the black metal remaining as it was in the sides and the legs of the bench. The wood was freshly damp from the morning dew. Confused, Ozzy stared at me, before following my gaze and standing straight up in bewilderment. He blinked a few times in concession. 

“Woah.”

“We should go,” I hesitantly murmured. 

“Wait a second,” he spoke normally. As he took a step forward, my grip on his hand deathly tightened, and he glanced back at me. “C’mon, it looks interesting.”

“Ozzy,” I whined. He didn’t listen to my silent protests, as he walked towards the bench with this nonchalant aire about him. I swore to myself that he would be the death of me. I didn’t let go of his hand, fearfully aware of what could happen to us if we somehow got separated in a dire situation. With a defiant huff, Ozzy sat down on the bench, looking up at me like he first discovered the North Pole. 

“Look at this! It’s like it’s from a fantasy book or something.” He patted the open space next to him, the wood making a quiet, hollow thumping sound. I looked around us, anxiously sitting on the bench next to him. 

“Ozzy, I don’t feel safe.”

“It’s okay, don’t worry! It’s only a bench.”

“It’s not just a bench,” I began, “what--what if something happens? A bear or a cougar… a cougar could appear out of nowhere and--and bite open our necks! A cult or… or some str _ ange _ group could surround--surround us and make us…

“Oh,” I interrupted my own rant. “Wow. That sounds  _ stupid _ .” I looked at Ozzy with a furrowed brow. “I’m sorry. I’m really… what’s the word? Delusional?”

“No you aren’t.” Ozzy’s voice was firm and low. “I just want to enjoy it for a bit.”

Glancing at him, his body was leaning against the back of the bench, his posture straight. His even breathing bled into the sounds of leaves rustling, squirrels running through underbrush, and birds chirping in the distance. 

I hadn’t registered in my life what falling in love could be like. I could never imagine myself in any kind of situation in which I experienced attraction that could be considered romantic, or sensual. My eyes were opened when I made experiences with Ozzy, despite having made them with people before, in other times. Yet Ozzy was different. Holding the hand of him, I felt this buzz in my chest I never felt before; there was a warmth I couldn’t explain and was foreign in my body. My brain, my head flush with red and excitement. The heart inside me pounding with this passion… affection for him? Being so young, I could not register what I was feeling, and instead left to the back of my mind. I only felt this strong desire for Ozzy’s presence every moment my eyes were open, to the time I fell to sleep every day. That timeframe was ever stranger to me. 

For the longest time, I thought it was normal to feel this way about people you cared about as friends, as I was never educated about concepts of love, romance, or clear affection to others. I was lost in a sea of emotions, searching for him underneath the waves. My affections for him grew stronger with every passing day we spent together. I reasoned that why my face reddened every time I saw him was a simple reaction to kindness he showed me; the reason I smiled every time I thought of him was only my imagination, twisting false memories to my present thoughts and having me see him in this… angelic light. 

I thought he was beautiful. This strange, human creature. Someone with a combination of features and description I had never imagined before, nor ever seen in a person with my own eyes. 

Slowly, I let my hand slip over his, which was planted against the sitting area of the bench. He didn’t move, not resisting at all as I ran my fingers between his, resting the tips on the wet wood. My other hand in my lap, I closed my legs, allowing one of them to bounce. I looked off into the treelines, seeing the way the horizon darkened under the thick canopy of the forest. 

“There’s so much noise,” I muttered to him. “Your hand is… warm.”

He opened his hand, gently sliding it out from underneath mine. He let out a deep, loud exhale as he stretched his arms up, straining his back and twisting his back muscles about. 

“What about the noise?”

“It’s so  _ loud _ . Can’t you hear it?”

“I don’t hear anything.”

“Everything. Everything is happening all at once. It’s scary, ain’t it?”

Ozzy reached over, cupping his hands over my ears. He pushed the flexible cartilage of my ear forward, and pressed it against the opening to my ear canal. I held my breath, our eyes meeting each other and not leaving. 

“Does that help?”

“Yes.” It didn’t, but I couldn’t tell him that. If I told him, he’d stop doing it, and his hands would leave my face and I could not let him do that because his hands were so large and so warm. They felt so soft against my skin, and were so delicate with me as if I was a frail porcelain doll, or something easy to break. Was he afraid to touch me too roughly? Was he genuinely scared I would break under his pressure? “Why are you so gentle with me?”

He smiled at me. “Because you’re sweet.”

“Ozzy,” I whispered, “you’re really nice.”

“Thanks,” he answered gratefully. 


	6. kiss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They try on makeup.

* * *

**SIX**

The bench in the woods became  _ our _ place. It was an area of ours hidden away from the rest of the world, and we were certain no one else knew of its existence. A clearing of ivy and moss, leaves and bushes, and a place that we could be truly alone together. 

The bench was our destination on a specifically cloudy day. Ozzy had walked to my home to visit with me, insistent on meeting my parents since we had been friends for so long already. I lied and told him that Carrie was away from home-- she was actually at a friend’s house for the day-- but spoke the truth of Bo being at work. He worked at a logging facility, constantly surrounded by wood chips and sawblades. Sometimes he’d come home, sit down at dinner, and take off his hat only to have tiny wood chips fling forth from his head and land into his food. He never noticed, nor did Carrie, but I always could. I would only watch in hidden disgust as he’d mix the wooden chips into his plate, and shovel it into his mouth by the fork full. I had to stop pointing it out, because every time I did I’d be accused of trying to lie to them and sent to bed without dinner. 

Ozzy and I had only just stepped foot outside and barely made it down the street of my house, before I felt a speckle of saltwater drop onto my nose. It was a few seconds of spots surrounding the asphalt that we stood on, before it turned into the most violent downpour I had ever seen. We ran back to my home, slamming the screen door behind us in exhaustion; I collapsed to the floor, my hair tangled and drenching my body in rain. 

“Ah, jeez!” He wondered aloud, “do you think She ever gives up with this sorta thing?”

“ _ Who _ ?”

“Nature.”

“Oh.”

“Where are your towels,” he questioned, making a square out of his hands, “the small ones?”

“There’s a cupboard in the kitchen.” I pointed past him and through a small, doorless frame. “It’s just through there.”

“Thanks.” Ozzy threw back at me as he had already begun to stride into the kitchen. I bit my tongue as I heard the slim cupboard door be swung open. His figure bent over to the lower shelves, searching for a linen towel to use.

“You kn _ ow _ … who do you think controls the weather?”

“What a trick question!” He called from the kitchen. “It’s nobody, obviously.”

“You think that?”

“Well sure.” Ozzy emerged from the kitchen, drying off his face with the towel, before putting it in his hair and ruffling it up into a sticking up mess. He looked down at where I sat, a scheming grin spreading across his face. “Or maybe it’s aliens, looking for a way to control us through our minds...”

“Hahah,” I mocked.

“... and if we drink the rainwater, we turn into their zombie slaves. Ooo!” He came at me with his hands formed into goofy claws, jabbing at me jestingly and attempting to tickle any vulnerable part of my body.

“Stop!” I ordered, pushing his arms away. He laughed at me for a bit, before offering the towel to me. I took it and pressed it against my face, trying my best to hide the pink appearing on my cheeks. 

“Do you think I could use your phone?” Ozzy explained, “I don’t want my mom worrying about me.”

“Sure, sure,” I pointed past him again, to the phone that hung on the wall. “It’s right there.” Standing with my thin legs, I told him “I’m going to my room. You can come up there when you’re done.”

“Where is it?”

“Uh… just-- just--” I sighed-- “first room on the left. Real easy to find.”

“Okay,” he answered with a smile. 

I hurried up my stairs, not bothering to watch for the creaky steps as I always did. Opening my bedroom door, I stepped inside and was met with that same old, musty smell. If you’ve ever been inside a school gymnasium, surrounded by the scent of old wood, it smelled exactly like that. I could never get over that smell, almost like it was addicting. How strange is that? I sat on my bed, the mattress underneath me giving into my pressure. From up here, with the door cracked open to reveal a sliver of the hallway, I could hear pieces of Ozzy’s conversation on the phone echo up the stairwell and in through the door. 

“Mommy… yes… storm… Josephine… okay…”

So many words but if you put them together you’d get nothing but a strange garbled mess. I wonder if some form of extraterrestrial life ever found our planet after all of the humans went away, to Heaven and Hell and Purgatory of course. Ancient relics of our planet would be phones and cars, and forms of entertainment. What if the only surviving thing were pieces of a phone conversation? A one-sided one at that. Would they believe they’ve lost so much of our language, or would they come to believe that the broken way of speaking was actually how we used language? Maybe they’d theorize that “mother” was another word for rain or nature; maybe “Josephine” would be the word for rocks. Maybe I was only a pile of rocks, and I couldn’t move, I could only imagine the lives of the people who walked past me on a forest trail. How could I know this life was mine? I only inherited the memories and the body, but my brain remains the same.

I jumped and stood straight as Ozzy burst through the door, holding the handle. “Hello!”

“Holy fuckin’--”

“Wow, your room is cool!”

“It is…?” My room was a cluttered wasteland of stuff we never used anymore. On the left side of the door was my bed, which sat against the smallest wall in the room. I had a slanted ceiling, see, so I covered the wall and ceiling near my bed in posters of movies and bands I thought were cool. I liked metal when I was younger. I wasn’t allowed to listen to it often, but whenever I snuck out with Abigail she’d let me borrow her music and listen to it then. The loudness of their voices and instruments blocked out all of the bad thoughts and things my mind would tell me. Besides that, I had a desk and a waste bin next to it; a dresser, a mirror, and a small closet. Light gray painted walls with a light gray rug, and a dark wooden floor. Ozzy closed the door behind him, revealing more embarrassing posters stuck to the back of it with tape. 

“It’s like it’s from a movie,” he mentioned, “maybe a drama. Or a horror.”

“That’s  _ so _ kind,” I bit sarcastically. 

Ozzy stuck his tongue out at me, before flopping down onto the floor. He laid on his back, looking up at the ceiling and stretching his body out over my soft, fluffy rug. 

“You can come up here.” I patted my mattress, looking down at him. 

“The floor is more comfortable,” he answered matter-of-factly, “it’s much more firm.”

I rolled my eyes, turning myself around and leaning back until my legs supported my weight on the bed. My upper torso and my head hung upside down over the side of my bed, looking at Ozzy hesitantly. I heard Ozzy smack his lips together the second I blinked.

“What’s that?” He rolled over onto his stomach, peering under my bed and into the corner.

“What.”

“This,” he pulled it out. It was a small, closed stick of eyeliner. I leaped off of my bed, swiping it out of his hands and smacking his right hand hard enough to sting my own palm. 

“Don’t touch that,” I half-shouted, my ears burning like a violent wildfire. I ran to my desk, shoving it into one of my drawers and slamming it shut. 

“Do you… do makeup?”

“Shut up,” I barked, spinning around. My fists clenched, I watched him shrink down where he sat, his body curling up in regret. He looked to the corner of the room, his hands gripping locks of the rug’s artificial fur. “You should go.”

“Josephine--”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” I grunted, “I’m not-- I’m-- I’m not al _ lowed  _ those kinds of-- of things.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’m not.” I felt the roots of my hair begin to stretch, strain, pull from my fingers and my strength. I smacked my fist against my forehead. “It’s not natural. I’m not a natural person. I’m not normal, Ozzy.”  _ Bonk. Bonk. Bonk. _ On it goes and on it went like a drum was my head and my brain was inside, able to hear it all in a muffled tone. I crouched to the ground, my feet arching; I covered my forehead with my hands, burying my face into the crook between my knees. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. You should leave. I don’t want anybody knowing.”

I heard Ozzy shuffle, his legs slumping against the ground before shuffling through the rug and towards me in an uncanny sounding manner. He grabbed my hand.

“Josephine,” he started.

I pulled myself away, scooting back a couple inches and away from him, pushing my torso back with my feet until my back hit my wall. “Stop.”

“... Can you do my makeup?”

I paused, my breath hitching awkwardly loud. Looking up at him, my vision blurred from the tears forming in my eyes, before I felt a thumb place itself at the corner of my eye. He rubbed his thumb against my upper cheek, sweetly trying to clear up my sight and rid my face of my tears. I pursed my lips at him. “What?”

“I want you to put makeup on me,” he reiterated. I scoffed, uncurling my legs and straightening them out across the floor, my hands hidden between my thighs. He carefully crawled closer, sitting down next to me, his hand never leaving my face. 

“Why?”

“Because it’s pretty,” Ozzy stated, “if you wanted, you could. You don’t have to.”

I watched him, eyebrows stitched together in pure, unadulterated confusion. I leaned away from him, my hand touching the side of Ozzy’s hand on my face and pushing it away and down to the space between us. I wasn’t used to someone so willing to touch me all the time, let alone be around me. The only experience I had with such things was Abigail, yet I did not feel a connection to her like I did Ozzy. It was an unusual circumstance, being alone in my own house with him here. I fully expected him to leave, or to begin throwing punches as soon as he found my secret. He only sat there, looking at me. 

“This… this isn’t a trick? You’re not tricking me?”

“I wouldn’t trick you, Josephine.”

“I--” “You-- You, I mean--” I shook my head. Rubbing my eyes with my hand, I pointed with my opposite hand across the room towards the opposite wall. “Sit down over there.”

Ozzy crawled across the floor, and to the designated spot. I scooted to the edge of my bed, reaching my arms out to under my bed and pulling out the box underneath everything else. Opening the folds up, I moved back to Ozzy, looking up at him with bared teeth.

“You’re not tricking me,” I demanded.

He subtly shook his head, scratching at the corner of his mouth with his index finger. “No.”

“Okay.” I nodded my head, taking a deep, calming breath.  _ One, two, three, exhale. Four, fixe, six, exhale. In through the nose, out through the mouth. _ Today will be a good day. Holding a finger up to Ozzy, requesting patience, I opened the folds of the box and leaned it over to angle the opening towards Ozzy. He looked inside slowly, narrowing his eyes as he examined the different makeup. I reached into it, picking out my eyeshadow, then my lipstick and eyeliner. “Okay. I have all this. It’s not much but… I got this recently.”

Smiling to himself, he shimmied his shoulders recklessly, clapping his hands together in readiness. “Start with the blush,” he ordered happily.

“Okay, hang on,” I muttered. The small container of blush gave a  _ snap _ as I opened it, grabbing a brush with my free hand. Swatching it with the inner side of my wrist, I looked up to Ozzy, who puffed out his chest and stared at my working hands in anticipation. “Close your eyes,” I whispered. Ozzy did so without a single word of defiance. In gentle, swishing motions, I dabbed the brush into the blush, and applied it to his cheeks in small, circular motions. I tapped his nose with it, adding a couple layers of sweet pink to the tip. Setting the blush aside, I picked up my darker shade of lipstick. A natural, darker nude, to give Ozzy’s makeup a more natural look. I puckered my lips from instinct. 

“Okay.”

Ozzy rubbed his lips together, giving them a pop before giggling to himself. I smiled, glancing down to his chest and catching the sight of thin hairs spreading across his pecs. Freckles doused themselves across his tanned, bronze skin.

“Boys aren’t supposed to  _ wear _ makeup, you know,” I hinted. 

“Then why do  _ you _ wear it?”

I grabbed the eyeliner, opening the pencil up and frowning at him. “I don’t wear it, I ap _ ply _ it. I don’t like wearing it on my _ self  _ too much.” I pressed my thumb against the corner of his eye, pulling it open. He flinched. “Open them and look up.”

“Hmm,” Ozzt hummed, looking off to the corner of the ceiling. His eyes watered as I lined the underside of his second eye. He clicked his tongue repeatedly inside his mouth, hitting the roof of his mouth with his tastebuds. “If a male couldn’t wear makeup, why am I able to wear it right now?”

“That’s not  _ fully _ what I meant. You’re silly.” In under a minute, I had used an older mascara on his eyelashes, stretching them out and darkening them, bringing them together with a natural solution. He fluttered his eyes dramatically, trying to dry off the heavy feeling of the thick ink on his eyelids. I opened the eyeshadow palette, withdrawing a detailed brush from a tiny zippered makeup bag. I dabbed at the colors. “We’re going with a bold turquoise. It’ll complement your eyes real well.” 

He looked to the colors, eyes widening. He pointed to the palette. “Oh, here, I want the glitter in it.”

I rolled my eyes, wiping away the already applied dust on my brush onto my wrist. I used up the old color, before returning it to the glittery turquoise instead of the dull one. “God, your face is going to reflect like a mirror.”

“I’m willing to take that risk,” he gloated. I was envious, seeing how any color could match with a face and colors like his. Thinking about it, a yellow would be absolutely god-awful on him. Oranges and reds would be much too aggressive on an already sharp face like his. Cool colors are much calmer and professional; suitable for a personality like him. Gently, I swiped the brush across both of his eyelids, applying a thick and colorful layer. 

“We’re… done. There.” 

Ozzy bent his back, crouching down before hopping up onto his feet. Hands on his hips, he spun around to look into my wall-mounted mirror. He leaned towards it, examining his face closely. He tapped his cheeks. Stars appeared in his eyes, shimmering like miniscule diamonds. “God, Josephine,” he beamed, “I feel like a princess. Like some fancy queen.”

Setting everything back inside the box, I grabbed a small bottle and forced it into my hands, fiddling with it and switching it between my fingers. I stood up. “It’s not that great.”

“I look like a different person.” His eyes gleamed, glancing over to me. His pearl white teeth showed themselves like the many times before, except this time they were accentuated by his bold, smoother lips.

“Mmph.” Looking downwards, I reached my hand out towards Ozzy and offered him the tiny bottle. “I, uh, I have varnish. You know, for nails? If you want that too.”

He grabbed ahold of the entire hand, the bottle the only thing separating our palms from fully meeting. He stared me down, directly into my hellbound soul. I felt myself shrink.“Can I put it on you?” Ozzy requested.

“Well, I mean, you could,” I grumbled.

“Okay--”

“But I’d have to clean it off right after-- right after because of-- of my-- of my parents.”

Ozzy huffed. “Okay.” He took the bottle of nail varnish from my hands, looking at the shimmering emerald green color I picked for him. Grasping my hand once again, he dragged me down with him as he sat on my comforting rug. We sat across from each other, legs crossed relaxingly. Unscrewing the cap, he dipped the brush into the varnish, and grabbed the underside of my hand, pulling it into his lap. His strokes were precise, small, and repetitive. He stuck out his tongue in concentration, watching the varnish spread out across my nails in even layers. I said nothing as he decorated my scarred hands.

“You’re a very strange person, Josephine,” he suddenly said.

I glanced up at him, giving a tense and artificial smile. “I am, aren’t I?”

“Yeah, but that’s okay. I wouldn’t want to change you for anything.”  _ Schlip _ went the green along the nail of my thumb. 

“... What do you mean?”

“I like you as you are.” Finishing my left hand, he placed it back into my own lap and grabbed my right hand, placing it on his calves. Kneeling over it, he squinted his eyes humorously. “You have very nice hands.”

Red. Everywhere. “Why would you say something like that?”

“Because it’s true.” He moved onto my ring finger. “You don’t like getting compliments much. That’s what I’ve noticed. But I think that you deserve more than I already give you.”

Silence overtook us as he covered my pinky finger. “Ozzy.”

“Mmhmm?” 

“You’re too nice to me.”   
“Maybe I am. I don’t care. I like being nice to you, you’re my friend.” Ozzy screwed the cap of the nail varnish bottle back on, grabbing my long, thin hand with both of his. He blew onto the wet green, tilting my hand back and forth in the light to see how it reflected across the land of my nails.

“Ozzy.”

He licked his lips. “Yeh.”

“I care about you,” I stuttered.

He faced me, looking up, and giving a pure smile. His brow raised in surprise. “I care about you too.”

I moved closer to him, our legs touching and looking at each other fully. I gave out shaky breaths, glancing down at the red boldness of his lips. His eyes looked between mine, from my nose to the different tips of my ears. “I feel… really alone though,” I hushed. I exhaled. “I can’t explain it. I want to hold you. I want-- I want to squeeze you so… so-- so damn tight.”

Our noses nearly touched each other’s. I could feel the breath exhaling through his nose puff upon my lips, this cold air that drove me to tense up, freezing in place. My body jolted, giving a large, audible sigh from my lungs. I was paralyzed, unable to move or to speak and break the thick silence beneath us. I watched Ozzy lift his hand, his thumb running against my bottom lip, back and forth like some tense and strange pendulum. I shivered underneath his touch. 

“God,” I purred. I felt his legs meet with mine, and I moved them along myself. I lifted my legs, slowly making my way onto Ozzy’s large lap. My legs crossed, they fit onto his lap and ran against his cross legs. His back stood firm and straight, my head level with his. I reached up and grabbed at his cheeks, running my fingers along his face and feeling the traces of it, soaking in every detail. My prints felt every bump of his skin, all the soft and coarse parts that blended together to form his outer layer. The strange sunspots littering his skin from the exposure of light. I pressed our noses further together. Closing my eyes, I relished this moment between us. 

His lips touched my own, slightly pecking them and refusing to go any further. I gave an exhilarated breath as I felt Ozzy’s torso just in front of mine. My hands slid down his neck until they found a place on his shoulders. The near silence was filling the room, leaving nothing but the reaction to the others’ kissing. After a few minutes of intimate affection, Ozzy broke away, but his gaze did not leave my direction. 

“Are you alright, Josephine?” Ozzy’s hands were on my shoulders, and he was staring at me like I was dying or something.

“Yeah, I’m fine.” I grinned at him.

“You’re shaking all over, do you need some space?”

“Nope, I’m fine Ozzy, keep going.”

“Nervous?”

“Nervous as hell. God it’s so stupid,” I muttered. I was sick of him always asking me questions all the time. At first it was great, but sometimes it became so enraging.

“We don’t have to, Josephine--”

“No,” I told him. I don’t think I said it too loud, but Ozzy quickly shushed me and put a hand on my face. Now that felt good; he just started running his hand down my face, then would put it back to the top and run it down again. He put his fingers in my hair, and started to run them through it. 

He took one of my hands, moving it from his shoulder and lightly holding it. He kissed it, moving down to his wrist before placing it on his cheek. I silently adored Ozzy's gentleness, and leaned in towards him. I kissed Ozzy one more time, my hands pulling Ozzy's head forward. His hands began to fall, tracing along my body. Our bodies pressed against each other in a form of stable equilibrium. When we did stop, it ended with a small pop of the lips. I let out a loud chuckle of disbelief at the sound, covering my mouth with my palm and blushing profusely. Ozzy was compliant to anything I had to do. With kind intentions, Ozzy’s mouth gave soft kisses to my jaw and collarbone. They were large, awkward, and sloppily done. The works of an innocent, immature teenager who never kissed another person in his life. I knew what he was feeling. While in the back of my mind, panic and shame arose inside me like a growing fire on top of coals, my primary emotions were that of pure joy. 

It was a while before I finally grew tired of it, and instead I rested my head against Ozzy's chest. I traced a hand along his chest, feeling Ozzy's grip move slowly to my back. Ozzy kissed my head, and I fully enjoyed his presence. I never wanted him to leave; I wanted him to remain by my side forever, until we were to die, in which we would own a piece of Heaven together. How pure and simple-minded I was, thinking of such ideals to myself and convincing myself they were possible with someone like Ozzy. I looked up as I heard Ozzy chuckle. 

“What…?” I mumbled.

“You're just… adorable,” Ozzy responded. I glanced up at him with a flattened mouth. Was he growing soft towards me? I looked back to the side against Ozzy's body, still gently going up and down along his waist. Ozzy gazed at the top of my head, rubbing my back as he thought to himself. I couldn't respond as Ozzy quickly sat up, criss crossing his legs. He gave me a ginormous bear hug, squeezing my body tightly. I felt as if my eyes would pop out of their sockets from the force of his hug. Have you ever seen a pug, or a chihuahua? I could imagine if you were a ghost in the room watching us, my face would have looked exactly like that in that moment. Then, what were you doing watching a couple of teenagers have their first extremely embarrassing kiss? Pervert.

I could almost feel him smile, even though I couldn't see his face. “You're the sweetest thing I've ever met!” Ozzy laughed as I pushed away from him, mostly because I couldn't breathe worth a damn and I really did not feel like passing out from suffocation right after my very first kiss with another human being in existence. He laid a hand on my cheek, pushing my face to turn to his. His eyes were drooped, but he gave off a sense of true happiness. 

We faced each other, and we each met our own requirements for comfortness. I took little time to get up against Ozzy, putting an arm around him and wrapping it there, securing it to his side like a huggable stuffed animal. If I were to curl up, my legs could meet Ozzy's stomach. I let Ozzy put a hand on my waist, and relaxed, I returned my face to lay against Ozzy's chest. The smell of him was faint, but was always comforting. He usually smelt of a young boy’s cologne, but was mixed by the outdoors and a strange aroma of freshly picked mangoes. I couldn't put my finger on why I loved Ozzy's scent. Perhaps it was due to my bond with him, or maybe it's memories. Maybe it was my unhealthy, fantasized attachment that made me believe Ozzy was a perfect being incapable of flaws or mistakes. Here I was, putting Ozzy on a pedestal that nobody belonged on for their own safety and well-being. I only brushed it off, continuing to doze off into haziness while I breathed into Ozzy's thin shirt. 

Ozzy was growing more drowsy, his body relaxing more and more every second. With each other by our sides, it was so easy to let our walls be torn down, to feel vulnerable again. With Ozzy, I felt at peace for the first time in years. I let these miraculous tears of happiness cover my cheeks, and wiped them away carefully so as not to mistakenly tamper with the carefully painted nails Ozzy so graciously did for me.

“You’re lips,” Ozzy mumbled.

“Mm?”

He let out a laugh, pressing our foreheads together. “They got lipstick on them.”

~~~~

“You’re not home  _ too _ late, right?”

“No, no, I’m okay,” Ozzy assured me. We stood under his porch roof, the rain drizzling down and running through the house gutters like an overflowing river. The streetlamps were already on, reflecting off of the weightless falling rain, forming puddles in the middle of the cracking road. We couldn’t stop smiling at each other, standing there, or when we had been walking home together with Carrie’s old umbrella. 

“Will you be okay?” I asked him.

“Of course.”

“Do… Do you  _ have _ to go?”

He chuckled quietly to himself, rolling his eyes harmlessly. “Yes.”

I let out a clear whine. He placed a hand on my bicep, leaning down and running his lips against mine. Our faces were both pink, light and dark, a clear message of how awkward the experiences were for us. Even being the second time, we didn’t have a clear determination of how to portray such an intimate display of affection between us. 

“Are you… okay with this?” Ozzy’s voice was small, nearly inaudible, his face an inch away from my own. I gave a single nod, both of my hands gripping the handle of the umbrella. Without warning, he nuzzled his square hawk nose against mine. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” Calmly, he opened the front door that led into his dark, silent house, and snuck inside. 

  
  
  
  
  


Around a year passed after that night. I was homeschooled, Abigail and Ozzy went to public school, and many things happened. While I stayed at home, never changing in my routine or my usual hobbies and interests, Ozzy loved to call me, sharing everything new he did each day. He made friends. He got acquainted with other people, but many of them only accepted him at surface level. The unfortunate part of Ozzy is that he is bold, and open. He has no fear and no shame when it comes to socialization and other people. This was his downfall in highschool, considering not many people accepted a boy who would come to school with full eyeshadow on his lids. It didn’t help that on top of his self-expression, he was a well-known “know it all” and always found the favor of teachers, most of the time against his own will.

What I learned from many of our late night phone calls was that he was never directly insulted or had people who got his attention. I believe many people feared him due to his overpowering height and the appearance of his body. Not only was his appearance much different, but he also had a unique body shape, all things considering. He could have been on the football team, and do damn well too, but Ozzy always brought up his dislike for intense sports and violence. He would never have hurt a fly, him being so pacifist, but the cover of his book said otherwise to those who criticized him. Ozzy was instead left with cleaning off slurs from his locker, or indistinguishable crowds giving whispers about the new child. Ozzy was very strict on legality issues, and I learned that the hard way. One day he tried to show me his birth certificate just to prove he wasn’t here illegally, as some of his classmates had accused him of being.

Some nights I would leave my own house to visit Ozzy, and sit with him on the couch. As his mother slept, or read a book in a distant room, I would allow Ozzy to use my lap as a firm pillow. He’d lay there, hands curled up together and resting his body in the fetal position, worrying himself over people I told him he shouldn’t give the light of day over. My advice wasn’t good, telling him to hide who he was and what he was just so he wouldn’t be talked about, but I thought it was a good idea at the time. I thought I owed him something after everything I felt he was doing for me. In reality, he hadn’t been doing a thing except for being a friend to me. In many ways, he was much more than that when we were young. 


End file.
